


The Teacher Trap

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, M/M, Meddling Kids, New York City, Second Chances, Teacher Harry, Teacher Zayn, tw: social anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been seven years. Seven years of Harry trying to forget he ruined the best thing he’d had, of trying to forget how Zayn’s face looked the day he walked away. Even when Zayn becomes the English teacher at the high school where Harry teaches, it’s best for them both if he stays away. Friendship he can do, but anything more will only lead to heartbreak for both of them. He knows all of that—it’s just hard to remember when Zayn smiles.</p><p>Zayn knows very well he’s not the same person he was seven years ago. He’s spent the intervening time making sure of it. But Harry’s still Harry, and no amount of history can change the pull between them, as inexorable now as it was in college. And in between Harry bringing him lunch and making sure he’s bundled up against the cold, sometimes it’s hard to remember why they broke up in the first place, or why they need to stay apart…</p><p>With the help of meddling teenagers sure their teachers are in love, a few musical numbers, and a New York City winter, can Harry and Zayn get a second chance for happily ever after—the right way around this time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the new fic! I hope you enjoy. I'll be posting chapters every 3 days unless otherwise noted, so the next chapter will be up on Wednesday. 
> 
> Don't know, don't own, all that jazz.

_**Seven years earlier...** _

It was the right room. Harry glanced around the empty seminar room, ducked his head outside quickly to check the room number. It was definitely the right room. He’d double, maybe even triple checked the email before he came, then once more when the clock hit seven and Zayn wasn’t here. Room 513, they’d said, 513 at seven. It was seven fifteen now, and Zayn still wasn’t here.

Maybe he wasn’t going to come. Maybe he’d forgotten. It was just a study session to him, after all—or maybe it was just a study session. Harry didn’t know. He’d been a bit distracted when he’d asked Zayn after class if he wanted to study together, too busy watching Zayn, watching his lips move and how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and the way he ducked his head shyly and didn’t always meet his eyes when Harry came over to him. But he was always distracted when he talked to Zayn, ever since he had first gotten up the courage to talk to Zayn after a month of wondering about the blindingly fit guy who always came late and ended up sitting next to Harry in lecture.

Sometimes he missed what Zayn was saying because he was too busy thinking about what his lips would feel like if he just kissed them, right there in the lecture hall with all the other students filing out. But that was awful, because he loved listening to Zayn too, loved his sarcastic asides when the lecturer said something he didn’t agree with and how he muttered answers to stupid questions their classmates asked under his breath.

Harry ran a hand through his hair—then shook out his hair again, so it lay flat—and looked at the table. It wasn’t anything, really, just some sweet and sour chicken for him and beef with broccoli for Zayn set out next to the copy of _Madame Bovary_ they’d been required to buy, but he’d tried to make it look less platonic. He’d brought his iphone speakers and queued up his most romantic playlist, he’d sort of set a table, he would have brought a candle if he hadn’t worried it might set off the fire alarms. There was ambiance. Zayn had to figure out it was a date this time.

He was just adjusting the lie of the chopsticks when the door swung open and Zayn loped in. Twenty minutes late, Harry noted absently, before he was distracted by how Zayn pushed his glasses higher up on his nose as he pulled out his headphones, by how his denim jacket hung off his broad shoulders and his jeans hugged narrow hips and just how devastating he looked.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, tucking the earbuds into his pocket without looking at Harry, “I was—” He cut himself off when he looked up, glancing at the table, then at Harry. “You got food?”

“Yeah, figured you’d have forgotten to eat.” It was true, in part. It could have been true in all, Harry decided, from how it made Zayn smile softly at him, his eyes narrowing into crescent moons. How could he be adorable too?

“I did,” Zayn admitted, “I mean, I didn’t have time before I realized I had to come here. What did you—oh, is the beef with broccoli for me?”

“Yeah, it’s your favorite, right?” Zayn was approaching the table, so Harry darted around it to pull out his seat for him with his most charming smile. And people said he didn’t know how to do romance.

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed, his brow furrowing as he gave Harry a confused look. Well thank God he noticed something was up. He hadn’t when Harry had dragged him on a walk through the park, their arms bumping as Zayn listened to Harry talk about his concert and put a hand on his shoulder that somehow sucked out all Harry’s nerves; he hadn’t even when he’d gone to the concert, not even when after Harry’d grabbed Zayn’s arm and hadn’t let him get away for the rest of the night as he mingled. Harry would have backed off, if he thought Zayn was ignoring him—but Harry didn’t think he was. He hadn’t run away that night after the concert, after all, had just gotten drunk with Harry and let him hang off of him closer and closer until he was basically sitting in his lap. He just hadn’t, well, taken advantage of Harry being in his lap at all, even though Harry was doing his best to make it clear he was available and ripe for being taken advantage of.

So, Harry had decided to make things as clear as he could. “Want a beer?” he asked, once he had sat down. “I mean, I know we shouldn’t technically, but it’s late and no one will know, and—”

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn chuckled. Harry beamed at him when he handed over the Corona that was all he could manage to get his hands on. Their fingers brushed as Zayn took it. “This is great, really.”

“Yeah?” Harry leaned forward, trying not to look to eager. Here was where Zayn said something. Where Zayn declared his undying love—well, Harry would take lust, because if he didn’t get those hands on him soonest he might explode—and swept everything off the table to take Harry on it.

“Yeah, nothing like studying over food.” Harry slumped back in his chair. He had to be kidding him. “So, what did you want to talk about lecture?”

“That’s—” Harry gaped. No one was actually that oblivious. It wasn’t possible. Except Zayn was just giving him an even, expectant look out of clear hazel eyes, and Harry had a bit of a feeling he wasn’t kidding. “Fine. Um, so the thing about communism…”

Later that evening, after Harry decided that he probably wasn’t kidding and there was really only one way to be clearer and had just grabbed Zayn and kissed him in the dim classroom, after Zayn had made a surprised noise into his mouth, flailed a little, then got a grip on his hair and drew him closer until Harry was melting with it, he decided that as far as first dates went, this one wasn’t bad.


	2. Chapter 1

**_Seven years later…_ **

_Phoebe: Have you seen Mr. Malik today? He looks dreamy._

_Keisha: I’m literally sitting in his class right now, so yes, I’ve seen him. And you always think he looks dreamy._

_Phoebe: He always does look dreamy. But he’s wearing a sweater today. I love it when he wears sweaters._

_Keisha: Not to reiterate, Pheebs, but you love it when he wears anything._

_Phoebe: That’s because he looks good in anything. But there’s something about sweaters. He looks warm._

_Keisha: Sweaters do keep you warm._

_Phoebe: Shut up! He looks like he could keep me warm._

_Keisha: You wish. Bet you’d love it best if he wasn’t wearing anything._

_Phoebe: Keisha! (but…yes. God. He never even wears short sleeves. I feel so Victorian.)_

_Keisha: ????_

_Phoebe: I think I’d faint if I saw his wrist. Or, god, his forearm. It’d be too much._

_Keisha: If you’re fantasizing about his forearms you aren’t doing it right, girl. I wouldn’t mind seeing what he’s got under his sweaters._

_Phoebe: Don’t be crass. I don’t need him...unclothed. I just want him to look deep into my eyes and read poetry to me under the moonlight._

_Keisha: Think you’d have to fight Mr. Styles for that. Bet he gets poetry read to him._

_Phoebe: What do you mean?_

_Keisha: Really? You don’t—there’s the bell I’m out._

\---

Zayn shook his head over the paper in front of him. Tim was a good student—certainly thorough—but he had a bad habit of refusing to speculate on motives he couldn’t prove. No surprise Niall loved him; he probably was great at science, but Zayn was forced to be more liberal with his red pen than he’d have liked.

He flipped the page—Tim did write short, at least, though Zayn didn’t doubt it was strictly within the word limit—and grabbed idly for his mug to recaffeinate. He brought it to his lips, then moved it away and frowned. Empty. Damn. He could have sworn he’d just filled it up. He knew he had, actually, because he always needed another mugful after the freshmen he had after lunch, to keep him going through the end of the day. He couldn’t have drunk it already. It had only been twenty minutes since the Freshmen had left. Maybe thirty.

He was still frowning at the unfortunately empty mug when his phone buzzed next to him. He glanced at the text coming through—then swore under his breath, dropped his pen, picked up a black one and a notebook, and raced out of the room.

Five minutes later, he eased the door to auditorium open as quietly as he could, and slid inside with an internal prayer. Even though the lights were on, and the first few rows at least mostly full, no one looked away from the stage as he went down the aisle as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. But apart from a few quick sidelong glances at the movement, he slid into the empty seat next to the aisle in the front row without any problems.

From the seat next to him, Harry grinned, and handed over a full paper cup of what Zayn discovered, upon taking a sip, was coffee.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and took another sip. “And for texting.”

“Knew you’d forget.”

“Didn’t forget,” Zayn protested. “Just…”

“Got caught up,” Harry filled in, with a roll of his eyes that was cut by his smile. He would know, better than anyone, how Zayn ‘got caught up’. “Didn’t miss anything, don’t worry.”

“Lou been pontificating for the whole time?”

“It’s been very exciting,” Harry agreed. “We all cheered a lot.”

“Can I boo?” Zayn muttered, and Harry nudged him chidingly with his knee and was about to reply when,

“And helping with our grand endeavor this year are our two chattiest attendees,” Louis said, loudly and pointedly. Harry jumped. Zayn bit his lip, and willed himself not to sink down in his chair. Louis was joking. It wasn’t a problem.. “Mr. Styles and Mr. Malik. Who have agreed to assist with only a little blackmail, so let’s give them a round of applause.”

The students obeyed. Harry leapt to his feet, then grabbed at Zayn’s arm to pull him up to standing. Harry always had been strong when he wanted to be; Zayn didn’t have a choice but to get to his feet too. He did not, however, bow as Harry did, a full stage acknowledgment that made his hair flop around his face and someone give a whoop.

“Feel free to bug them if I’m not around, they sometimes know things,” Louis went on. Harry blew Louis a mocking kiss. Zayn didn’t deign acknowledge him that much, just tried to tug at Harry’s arm to sit back down so everyone would stop looking at him. “Though never as much as me. So, with no further ado: the spring musicale.”

“Has he been watching High School Musical again?” Zayn whispered, as Harry let him sit them back down. “I thought we said he wasn’t allowed to.”

“What, you don’t want to Bop to the Top?” Harry asked, his most innocent look on. Zayn made a face at him, then slumped in his seat as Louis pattered on. “Not Breaking Free? Your head not in the game? Your—”

 “You’re not allowed to watch either,” Zayn informed him. “How do you even know that?”

“I am a music teacher at a high school, it’s research.”

Zayn raised his eyebrows. “Zac Efron’s not your type.”

“Nah, I prefer a more—”

“Anyway,” Louis shot them another glare. “If everyone would be quiet, except for maybe a drum roll—Ralphie, if you please—” the sound of hands pattering against thighs started up. “Our musical this year will be…Anything Goes!”

Harry started clapping wildly, as Louis shook his fists in the air and the students, carried away by their enthusiasm, cheered. Zayn sunk lower in his seat, and sipped at his coffee. Someday, he would learn to say no to the combined power of Louis’s and Harry’s pouts, and not have to deal with the musical. He wasn’t sure when, but it would happen. The sheer irony of him working on a musical had to overwhelm his inability to say no to Harry sometime.

“Come on, Zaynie, you like Cole Porter!” Harry said, over the receding cheers. “Don’t even pretend you can’t sing _It’s Too Damn Hot_ , because I heard you that one time—”

“We aren’t going to talk about that one time. Didn’t we agree on that too?”

“But you made such a pretty girl!” Harry smirked, and Zayn shifted in his seat. Harry had smirked at him like that then, too, back in college when he had begged, bullied, and blown Zayn into going to the drag ball. That had probably been the drunkest he’d ever gotten in college, until he wouldn’t have even remembered singing if Harry hadn’t had a video of it. He did remember how Harry had looked at him, though, how he’d kissed Zayn on the dance floor with their hips grinding together. How he’d seen Harry talk and chat with all the people he knew, and how Zayn had thrown back shot after shot to get himself the courage to smile and laugh and look like Harry’s boyfriend should.

“Anyway,” Harry went on, after a final cheerful leer, “This’ll be fun!”

“You always say that,” Zayn muttered, but he took another sip of his coffee, and gritted his teeth and bore it when Harry pulled him up on stage to talk with Louis as the students filed out.

\---

“Where’s Liam?” Niall asked, as he slid into the booth next to Harry, and grinned broadly at Louis. “Thought he left before I did.”

“He’s making sure Zayn comes,” Louis answered. “Bad day?”

Niall shrugged. “Frogs got out.”

Harry shuddered—there were some things he didn’t want to know about—but Louis leaned forward, interested. “Who let them out?”

“Carlos.” Niall took a long swig of his Guinness. “I mean, I don’t know it’s him, but it’s him. It’s always him.”

“He’s a good kid!” Louis protested. He’d had a soft spot for trouble-makers as long as Harry had known him, ever since Harry’d started at the Carrington School, five years ago. It was because, Liam had told Harry then, with a long-suffering sigh of someone who had suffered through Louis’s exuberance for years, he usually sided with them. Now, after four years, Harry was pretty sure that was true.

“Still always him,” Niall pointed out. “What are you drinking, Haz?”

Harry glanced down at his glass. “It’s a vodka tonic.”

“We’re at a craft beer bar,” Niall said, slowly, like Harry was stupid. “Why aren’t you drinking beer?”

“I don’t like beer.” Harry shook his head, and defiantly took another sip of his drink. Beer tasted gross and only led to bad things. He just liked the atmosphere at the Pony Bar, and it was close to Carrington, so he didn’t argue when Niall wanted to come here. “Anyway, talking about Carlos, today he—”

“Sorry we’re late.” Liam sat down next to Harry as Zayn pulled a chair up to the end. “Someone wasn’t ready to go.”

“It’s like you’re surprised or something,” Zayn retorted. “I just needed to finish up some lesson planning.”

“A likely story,” Louis snorted. “Anyway, Harry. Carlos story. These are usually good.”

“It’s cute! He was asking me today if I knew any good love poetry.”

Niall guffawed. Zayn’s eyebrows drew together. “Why wouldn’t he ask me? I’m his English teacher.”

Liam gave him his best incredulous look. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?”

“Aw, bless.” Louis reached around Niall. For a second, it looked like he was going for Zayn’s hair, but something in Zayn’s eyes made him detour down to pat his hand. “You’re adorable.”

“What?” Zayn’s lips were pressing together, in that way he always got when he didn’t know something, his brow furrowing, and Harry curved his hand onto his knee to resist the urge to reach out and hug him. He needed to stop drinking. “Why is it obvious?”

“You know who he’s using the love poetry on, right?” Liam asked.

Zayn bit his lip. “Janice?”

“Has he always been this bad?” Louis asked Harry. Harry nodded sagely. He didn’t know the half of it.

“Always.”

“Pity. He’s using it on Dorothy, obviously. Haven’t you seen those two go at it?” Louis sighed, pressed his hands to his heart. “Young love.”

Zayn rolled his eyes again. “Still not explaining why he didn’t ask me. He likes me! Maybe not as much as he likes you,” he told Harry. “But he does.”

Louis shook his head despairingly. Harry knew the feeling. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Malik.”

“What?” From the way Louis jumped, Harry guessed Zayn had kicked him under the table. It was impressive aim. Harry never managed to kick who he wanted when he tried.

“Come on, you have to know Dorothy’s pretty infatuated with you,” Niall inserted, when it looked like Louis was ready to retaliate.

“She—what?”

“Really lucky you’re pretty,” Louis repeated, and patted him on the hand again, his hand drawing back when Zayn flipped his to swat at it. “’cause we sure as hell don’t love you for your observational skills.”

“I’m—”

“When we were going out, you didn’t know I was your boyfriend until Kev told you,” Harry put in. Louis barked out a laugh; Liam snorted into his drink, Niall’s shoulders started shaking. Zayn just narrowed his eyes at Harry. Harry grinned back. It was true. He hadn’t.

“At least I drink beer at a beer bar,” Zayn shot back.

“Oooh burn!” Louis called.

Harry’s fingers tightened around his cup. He didn’t think Zayn of all people would tease him about that, but it was okay, it had been years, clearly Zayn was over it. “I—”

“What poetry did you give Carlos?” Niall interrupted. He was always good at that. “I’m sure Zayn has commentary on that.”

“I’m sure I do,” Zayn agreed. Harry stuck out his tongue, and started listing the poetry he’d vaguely remembered from when he and Zayn were dating.

\---

_Keisha: Alert: he’s in a sweater again._

_Phoebe: I know! It’s dreamy…_

_Keisha: Watch it, Pheebs. You’re drooling._

_Phoebe: I’m not!...And I don’t get why you aren’t._

_Keisha: Eh, he’s hot enough. But I wouldn’t fancy competing with Mr. Styles for him._

_Phoebe: I’m not competing—not like there’d be a competition—I’m appreciating. There’s a lot to appreciate._

_Dorothy: There really is._

_Keisha: Stop encouraging her, DA!_

_Dorothy: I’m not encouraging, I’m agreeing. He is dreamy._

_Phoebe: See Keisha!_

_Dorothy: And I’m always right, so you know it’s true._

_Keisha: Didn’t know he was your type. Thought your type was funnier, more Hispanic, more—_

_Dorothy: Stop it he could see this!_

_Keisha: He’s like three seats away, chill. And it’s not like the whole world doesn’t know you’ve been pulling each other’s pigtails since we were eight._

_Phoebe: Sorry, but it’s true, DA._

_Dorothy: I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s an immature idiot and I don’t need that in my life._

_Keisha: Can we tell him that?_

_Dorothy: I have, at length. He just laughs. It’s awful. Now shush, I’m concentrating._

_Keisha: On Mr Malik’s lips?_

_Phoebe: That’s where I’m looking._

_Dorothy: On what he’s saying about Huck Finn, shut up, god._

_Carlos: What are we writing about?_

_Dorothy: CARLOS!_

\---

“Mr. Malik?” Zayn turned away from the blackboard to where the students had started to file out. Usually, given class was right before lunch, there was a bit of a stampede—something about chicken nuggets, he didn’t entirely understand—but he smiled at the girl standing there.

“Yeah, Phoebe? What’s up?”

Phoebe smiled shyly, running a hand over her long brown hair. She always smiled like that, like she wasn’t entirely sure she belonged, he’d noticed. It gave him a bit of a soft spot for her, because he’d smiled like that too, for a long time. He probably still did. “I was just wondering…could maybe me and D.A. and Arnold come back here during lunch? We’ve got a project, and need somewhere to work on it, and we aren’t allowed in the library with food…”

“Sure, of course. As long as you don’t mind I’ll be hanging around.”

“No! I mean, of course not.” She gave him that smile again, opened her mouth like she meant to say something else, then closed it again with a bit of a squeak before she scampered off.

Zayn shook his head as she ran off, then finished erasing the blackboard. When he was done with that, he sat back down at his desk. He’d meant to review his notes for his afternoon classes, but he also had the new Richard Galbraith novel, and he did have time…

A knock on the door jolted him out of the book. Phoebe was hovering there, a bag in hand; behind her Dorothy and Arnold craned over her shoulder. “This still okay?”

“Yeah, come on in.” He liked these three, more than some of their louder, more excitable classmates. It was always easier for him to figure out how to deal with the quiet ones, who he knew what to expect from.

“Thanks, Mr. Malik!” Dorothy chirped cheerfully, as she sat down at her desk halfway down the row. Arnold rolled his eyes tellingly, but settled down next to her with the sort of resigned exhaustion that Zayn understood only too well from dealing with Louis.

Zayn fell back into his own book, until, “Carlos!” three voices rang out in unison. He glanced up again. A Hispanic boy with the sort of smiling face that Harry had, that never stopped, grinned down at them all from his perch on the desk next to Phoebe.

“What?”

“We’re trying to work,” Dorothy snapped. Despite himself, Zayn lowered his book to watch. He’d never had this sort of high school romance, would never have been able to deal with the complications of it, but he always loved to observe people who could.

“It’s a very valiant effort, I know,” Carlos retorted. Dorothy huffed out an irritated breath. “I’m excited to see how it goes.”

“It would go better if you weren’t here.”

“Alas!” Carlos clutched at his chest, pretended to fall backwards. “You’ve wounded me!”

“Shut up!” Phoebe hissed. She glanced at Zayn, who ducked his head down to his book and hoped she didn’t catch him watching. “Don’t get us kicked out of here, Carlos!”

“Nah, Mr. Malik’s cool, he wouldn’t. Right, Mr. Malik?” Carlos added, louder, and shot him a thumbs up and a jaunty smile.

Zayn just sighed, and held back a smile. It was kind of nice, to have the noise. In moderation. When he could be in control of it. “Just don’t break anything.”

“I’d never.” He crossed his heart, then turned back to the other three. “See?”

“Just shut up and let us work.” Dorothy dropped her head very definitively down to her book.

“I never tried to stop you.”

“Carlos,” Arnold said, in a slow, placating sort of tone, “Don’t you have something you could be doing? Quietly?”

“Yeah, didn’t Wanda mention how she had a new game for her Gameboy?” Phoebe added quickly.

“Did she? Maybe I’ll go check it out.” Carlos didn’t look away from Dorothy. Was that what they had all meant? That look, the way his smile softened when he looked at her? “If I’m bothering you all, that is.”

“You are.” Dorothy didn’t look up.

“What are we watching?” Zayn nearly jumped at the whisper in his ear, but he recognized the voice and the tone, and just set his book down completely.

“I think it’s High School Musical,” he told Harry under his breath, as Dorothy and Carlos continued bickering, and Phoebe and Arnold continued to look long-suffering. “Or a soap opera?”

Harry laughed, and settled against the desk, his long legs kicked out in front of him. “Nah, it’s just high school.”

“Maybe yours.” Zayn’s high school had consisted mainly of playing video games with Danny and Ant and trying to convince them that he didn’t need to leave the house, and keeping his head down and praying no one would make him talk when he had been forced out. But Harry’s, he knew, had been parties and drama and probably actual back-up singers, sometimes. It had always felt a bit like a different world, hearing Harry talk about it. Seeing Harry with his high school friends, once or twice, loud and rowdy and nice but overwhelming enough Zayn’d limited it to one or two times.

“Yeah, mine,” Harry agreed. He nudged Zayn’s calf with his foot. “Whatcha reading?”

“The new Galbraith—it’s JK Rowling’s pseudonym,” he added, when Harry just gave him a confused look. “It’s a mystery, and—what are you wearing?”

“A shirt?” Harry glanced down at himself, as if to check. Knowing Harry, he probably did. “Pants?”

It was a shirt. To be fair, it was even a nice shirt, that highlighted his broad shoulders and solid chest, all the muscle he had put on since college, and in a blue that made his eyes look lighter. It would have been lovely—except, “The tie?”

“Oh! Isn’t it great?” Harry ran a hand over the tie, dimpling at Zayn. “I just got it.”

Zayn gave it a skeptical look. Harry could dress himself, he knew. Harry could make himself into something devastatingly attractive, all legs and shoulders and ass and eyes. But then sometimes he also decided neon orange ties with lime green flowers on them were a good idea. “Can I burn it?”

“No.” Harry’s hand tightened instinctively over the tie. “Come on, Zayn, it’s cool!”

“It hurts my eyes.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’re surprised?”

Harry’s laugh rolled out, until even the kids looked over at them. Zayn drummed his fingers over the cover of his book. That feeling never had gone away, the pleased warmth that filled him up whenever he managed to make Harry laugh.

“Anyway,” Harry went on. The laughter lingered on his face, though, still that magnetic joy that always made everyone around him as happy as he was. “Lou wants to have a planning session for the musical tonight. That okay with you?”

“No, I have so many plans.”

“Thought so! It’s at mine, maybe around sevenish so I can go to the gym first? We can order food.”

“At yours?” Zayn asked. “Didn’t Louis suggest it?”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, but El has a thing, I don’t know.”

Zayn leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “You know you don’t have to let him volunteer you, if you don’t want.”

“Yeah, I know. “ Harry was smiling again, but it wasn’t that heart-stopping grin. It was the smile he used to get when Zayn remembered to do something nice for him, to get him flowers or something. Zayn didn’t really get why just checking on things got it for him now, but maybe standards changed when you were friends from when you were boyfriends. “I don’t mind. You know I like to have people over.”

“Okay.” Zayn sat back. The kids had quieted down—Arnold, Phoebe, and Dorothy were debating something over a sheet of paper, and Carlos was apparently stealing something from Arnold’s bag, which Zayn decided he wasn’t going to deal with unless Arnold noticed. He was a little clueless, it would do him good to wise up with his friends. “And you couldn’t have texted me that?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day! I wanted to stop by.” Harry grinned at him again. “Now you want to get back to your book, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Zayn admitted, a bit sheepishly. “If, like, you don’t have anything else…”

“Nah, that’s all.” Harry straightened, running a hand through his hair as he did. His fingers caught at the ends of one of the curls, and he made a displeased face before smoothing it out. It was getting long, Zayn noticed; maybe he was growing it out again. He never could settle on a length. “I’ve got to photocopy some music for next period anyway. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Zayn nodded.

“You aren’t going to forget?”

“No.”

“Or be late?”

“Probably.”

“Want me to text you?”

“Could you?” Harry laughed again, and Zayn wasn’t twenty anymore, so he didn’t blush. At all. Instead he went back to his book, and barely looked up again when the bell rang and the kids left, except to offer them a distracted smile.

\---

Zayn didn’t forget, to his credit, but Harry wasn’t exactly surprised when he showed up at 7:30 with a sheepish smile as Harry opened the door to his apartment.

“I would have been here sooner,” Zayn said, before Harry could say anything. Harry had to take a minute before he said anything anyway, because he sometimes forgot how Zayn looked outside of school, in his jeans and a t-shirt and with his hair down, “But the 2 was running slowly, and I don’t know why you have to live in Brooklyn anyway.”

“Because some of us can’t afford Manhattan?” Harry countered, and stepped aside. He liked Brooklyn, liked Park Slope. Liked the way it was full of families, and he could smile at the kids as they came and went. Liked the little shops, the cafes, the way he could always find some show to go to of an evening. And he liked that he could—just barely, and only because the landlord liked him—afford a studio to himself. He’d never thought he’d like living alone, but he found he appreciated it more now, usually; having somewhere to come back to where he didn’t have to amuse people. Even if sometimes it still felt quiet and lonely, like the space needed to be filled by more than Harry.

“No one can afford Manhattan, that doesn’t stop people from living there.” Louis rolled his eyes from the couch. “Like—”

“Shut up, you get to split the one-bedroom rent,” Zayn retorted. He accepted the glass of wine Harry handed him, and sat down on the couch next to him. “That’s cheating.”

“You could just find a boyfriend and solve that problem.”

“Then I’d have to go out and find one.” Zayn shook his head. “I’ll take living off of ramen.”

“ _Zayn”_ Harry sighed, and upped the pizza order he was entering on Seamless to a large.

“What? That way I don’t burn the building down.”

He had a point, Harry had to admit—it had never been that he was bad at cooking, exactly, just that he had a bad habit of forgetting that he had water boiling halfway through because he started doing something else. But still, “And that way you’ll die of malnutrition,” Harry retorted. He finished the order, sent it off, then set the computer on the coffee table between the couch and the armchair he had arranged to designate the living room area.

“Haven’t yet.”

“And I don’t know how,” Harry shot back. “You need a keeper.”

“And we go back to how I’d have to go find one.” Zayn shuddered. “I’ll leave the going out to you. I can live celibate.”

“Might improve your temper,” Harry retorted. “ But I haven’t in a while, I—”

“Boys!” Louis interrupted, in his best teacher voice. Harry had used that teacher voice—had actually based his own off of Louis’s, because he was the best at snapping an unruly class to attention—but it didn’t mean he wasn’t susceptible to it, his head jerking away from Zayn to look at Louis. “Don’t we have work to do?”

“I don’t know, do we?” Zayn retorted. Louis smacked him lightly on the shoulder; Zayn caught his wrist before a second blow could fall, giving him that steady, even look that could quell anybody, even Louis. It had been hot, too, when it focused on him; there hadn’t been anything better the few times he had managed to get Zayn to really focus everything on him.

Harry quickly guided his thoughts away from that. He would go out this weekend, find someone to pick up. Clearly he needed to get laid.

“Yes, we do,” Louis announced, pulling his hand away from Zayn. “We’ve got to figure out how to make Anything Goes into something appropriate for high schoolers.”

“How isn’t it appropriate?”

“They’re all having sex.”

“How is that not appropriate?” Harry asked, leaning back in the chair so he could sit cross-legged in it. “I bet they’re having sex. I was having sex then.”

“Yes, we all know the threesome story.” Louis pulled an iPad out of his bag to start flipping through to what looked like notes. “But you aren’t exactly typical.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Not everyone was having sex in high school,” Zayn interrupted. He hadn’t been, Harry knew. He hadn’t understood why not at first, because he couldn’t think of anything but sex when he looked at Zayn, had thought about those lips and the scruff and his hands and his shoulders—but he’d come to understand soon enough. He probably hadn’t noticed anyone wanted to. “And anyway, their parents probably like to think they aren’t prostitutes, at the very least.”

“Well, it does make good money…”

“How are you even allowed near students?” Louis asked incredulously. “Anyway. Planning.”

They actually did work for the twenty minutes until the pizza came, then for a while afterwards, filled with ideas and wine and chatter. A lot of wine, really, Harry noticed a little too late, as he watched Zayn. He hadn’t kept track of how much Zayn had had, but it must have been enough to get him on the far side of tipsy, from the way his hands were waving more enthusiastically, how his eyes were bright and excited and his words came faster, nearly tripping over themselves.

Harry had always loved him like this—not that he needed to be drunk for Harry to love him, but there was something about him like this, when he had finally let himself go, got out of his head a bit. He was better about it now, but back in college, it had been relaxing, almost, when Zayn was a few shots in and would start to look like he was finally having fun at a party and less like he would rather be anywhere but there.

Those had been the best nights, Harry remembered, watching Zayn and Louis bicker from under half-closed eyes. When Zayn hadn’t been stiff and formal and quiet, when he showed everyone the person Harry knew was under there, the person he loved. When he would look across a crowded room and smile at Harry like he was the only one he wanted to see, not like he was counting down the minutes until they could go home. And those nights, after…Zayn was sillier, drunk, more likely to be playful and teasing, whether it was him holding Harry down and peppering kisses all over him instead of letting him come, or if it was being looser, willing to let Harry do what he wanted with him.

“Okay,” Louis said at last, jolting Harry back awake. He clicked off the iPad and slid it back into his bag. “I need to get home. Good planning, lads. Zayn, you coming?”  He asked, as he stood up and stretched.

Zayn didn’t move. “Um…mind if I help clean up?” he asked Harry, biting tentatively at his lip, his eyes cast up under long, black lashes. “I should sober up some before I head home.”

“That’s fine. Don’t want you mugged or anything.”

“Nah, I’m threatening,” Zayn made an angry face that quickly broke into giggles. “I’m not in danger.”

“You’re in danger of getting off at the wrong stop, though,” Harry pointed out, and as he happened to know that had happened before, Zayn couldn’t say anything to it. “Stay, it’s fine. See you tomorrow, Louis.”

“Later!” Louis waved a hand and let himself out, and left quiet behind.

Harry probably should have moved, should have gotten up and put the plates in the dishwasher and thrown the bottle of wine in the recycling, but he was comfortable in the chair, and if he moved Zayn probably would too, and he didn’t want to make Zayn do that. He looked comfortable too, and so very very pretty, with his legs splayed like he was claiming his space, his head tilted back so the line of his neck was exposed. He should probably get a haircut soon, Harry noticed, but it was the right length he could probably get his fingers in the thick dark locks, could hold him—

Shit, he really did need to get laid, Harry realized. He only got like this when it had been too long, only started really looking at Zayn again, at seeing all the parts of him rather than just the Zaynness of him. All those so-attractive parts that had just gotten better with age, as he grew out of his weediness into something that was more solid, something that Harry could hold onto, that—

“You really haven’t gotten any in a while, have you?”

For a second, Harry was just drunk enough to think that Zayn could read minds. “What? How—”

Zayn chuckled lazily, as his fingers picked at the edges of the arm of the couch. “I know your tells, babe.”

“Well, it has been a while.” Harry crossed his arms defensively. It had been, and Zayn probably hadn’t gotten any for ages longer because he barely left his apartment except for work. “I’ve been busy, with school and then I’ve got a big gig coming up for the band and we’ve been rehearsing, and I’m doing some lessons too, so—”

“And you didn’t manage to meet anyone in doing all that?” Zayn asked. He pushed his hair off his forehead again. “I’m astonished.”

“Too busy even for that.” Harry pursed his lips together in an over-exaggerated pout. “Maybe I’m losing my edge.”

“Never could.” Despite himself, Harry grinned at that, at the praise he’d never learned not to take to heart from Zayn. “And anyway, bet it’s been longer for me.”

“What, you don’t get people just by existing?” It had always worked on Harry. It was working for Harry now, even as he tried to stop it. But Zayn was sitting like that, his legs spread just wide enough for Harry to fit between them like he had done a hundred times before, and he looked loose and he was smiling and how was Harry supposed to stand against that?

“Amazingly, you usually have to talk to them first.” Zayn made a face, scrunching up his nose. It was adorable. Harry hated it when he was adorable, because it shouldn’t have been allowed, not when he was hot too. “It’s easier just to not have sex.”

“But on the other hand, you could be having sex,” Harry pointed out. He should really change the topic. This wasn’t…safe, with Zayn. Not even now, after all these years.

“Yeah.” Something flittered across Zayn’s face, one of his ‘I have an idea’ faces Harry had grown to love and dread in equal measure, because sometimes they had been ‘I think I should see how long I can suck you off for before you come’, and sometimes they had been ‘I think I should read all of Shakespeare and not do anything else for a week.’ “I could be.”

He sat up, and his eyes were intent on Harry. They still had the brightness they got when he was drunk, but he wasn’t necessarily smiling anymore. He looked more thoughtful, more considering.

“Zayn?”

“We both haven’t had any in a while. You’re too busy to go out, I’d rather stab myself with a rusty spork. And the sex was always good…”

Now Harry sat up too, enough that he could push back into the chair, away from Zayn. “What? Zayn.” He couldn’t be saying what Harry thought he was saying.

But Zayn was intent now, focused like he got when he was set on an idea and couldn’t be swayed. “It’s a good solution. We know we’re good together in bed, there wouldn’t be pressure, we wouldn’t have to find other people, we—”

“Zayn!” Harry cut him off. When he glanced down, his knuckles were white on the arms of the chair. “What are you—”

“Do you want to have sex with me?” Zayn said it flatly, evenly, almost like he’d rehearsed it. Like it didn’t hit Harry like a thunderbolt, because of course he did. He’d wanted to have sex with Zayn since he was nineteen, and a little thing like a break up didn’t change that. But it did change other things.

“We tried that, Zayn,” Harry said quietly. He looked at his knees rather than Zayn; it was safer. “I fucked it up.”

“Not that, we know that doesn’t work.” Zayn leaned forward. His t-shirt gaped at the chest so his wings showed through, a hint of the red lips at his sternum. He’d loved it when Harry bit at those. “Just sex.”

“Just sex?” Harry reiterated. His grip was loosening. Just sex. That was a lot less scary. He couldn’t mess that up.

“Yeah. And, like, friendship, obviously. But not—not going out, or anything.”

“Zayn.” Harry could feel an almost hysterical laugh rising in him. “Are you asking to be my fuckbuddy?”

Zayn’s nose wrinkled again. “If you want to call it that, sure.”

Harry swallowed again. Zayn’s eyes were intent on him, unwavering, with that unrelenting focus it had sometimes felt like Harry’d only gotten from him in bed, but oh, it had felt so good there.

“How drunk are you?” he demanded. “I—”

He didn’t know how it happened, really; one minute Zayn was staring at him from the couch, the next he was straddling Harry’s thighs, pushing him back into armchair with his lips hot on Harry’s.

It was instinct, then, to wrap his hands around Zayn’s waist to hold on, to ground himself as Zayn kissed him long and deep, like he always used to, like that was the only thing that mattered in the world, just Harry’s lips against his. His teeth nipped at Harry’s lower lip, just the right edge of hard like Harry liked, and Harry moaned, his mouth opening. Zayn’s tongue slid in, then, and Harry couldn’t help his moan again, licking the taste of Zayn out of his mouth. It was different, now, less cigarettes since Zayn didn’t chain smoke them anymore, more of the wine he’d drunk. But it was still Zayn, familiar and wonderful and intoxicating.

Zayn bit again, and Harry’s hips jerked against Zayn’s. They were doing this, then. If they were doing this, Harry could do this. His hands started moving from Zayn’s waist, up to his shoulders then down to cup his ass, tracing the new lines of him. He wanted to learn all of Zayn, all of this new Zayn, wanted to see what had changed and what stayed the same. Out of interest, he slid his hands around Zayn’s ass and squeezed. Just like it had, it got a low groan out of Zayn. It was a rougher sound then before, and it went straight to Harry’s cock. Fucking hell, he needed—

Like Zayn could read his mind, Zayn pulled away from his lips to start kissing at his neck, light licks without teeth. He’d always used teeth before, had been almost vicious with it, how he’d spread his marks across Harry’s skin, leaving bruises Harry could push at when Zayn didn’t look up from his homework when he came in. But even if these weren’t going to leave bruises, they still felt so good, Zayn tracing his way down Harry’s neck, then down to his collarbone.

“Forgot how easy access your shirts were,” Zayn hummed against his skin. Harry’s hands were in his hair now, somehow, threading through it. Longer than it had been, without the crackle of product, so his fingers could twist in it as Zayn continued his way down Harry’s chest. His fingers were a second ahead of his lips, as he unbuttoned Harry’s shirt. He’d always been good with his fingers, not like Harry who had always felt so clumsy with Zayn. But before Harry knew it his shirt was fully open and Zayn was kissing around his navel, sliding down to fit between his legs.

“Fuck, Zayn…” Harry didn’t have the thought left for words, had forgotten how devastating Zayn could look like this, kneeling between his legs with big hazel eyes fixed on him, burning with passion, like Harry was _everything_. But still, it was—he hadn’t meant for this to happen so—“You don’t…”

“I want to.” Zayn said it surely, like it was a fixed point everything else could move around.  Then he glanced up, and Harry forgot to breathe again. “Do you?”

“Yeah, of course, I always—but I don’t need—you don’t need—” Harry was babbling, but it seemed to work, because,

“Don’t worry, I’ll be getting something out of it too,” Zayn retorted, with a quick flash of a smile—and yes, that was right too, there had been laughter in their bed too, even when everything burned so hot—then those fingers were undoing the button of Harry’s jeans and pulling them open. “God, it’s easier out of those skinny jeans.”

“You loved me in those jeans,” Harry retorted, “My ass looked fantastic.”

“You ass always looked fantastic. But it was a pain to get you out of them.” Zayn hummed over Harry’s boxers, his breath hot. Harry gripped hard at the arms of the chair to keep from bucking. He hadn’t been this hard in ages, it felt like.

“Saying my ass doesn’t look fantastic now?” he managed to get out, though, and Zayn’s laugh vibrated through him.

“Not now, babe.” Deliberately, he drew down Harry’s boxers. Harry hissed at the air hitting his cock, then louder as Zayn licked up the shaft, lingering, almost savoring. “I’m concentrating.”

“You—fuck!” Zayn had swallowed him down, no pretense, and Harry couldn’t say he objected, not to the wet heat of Zayn’s mouth wrapped around him, his lips pinks against Harry’s skin, against the darker scruff on his cheeks. Harry clenched his fists on the chair, because it had taken months before Zayn was okay letting Harry hold his head when he did this. Not that he needed guidance; either Harry really was hard up or Zayn had gotten better at giving head since he’d last done it, because he sucked Harry off with that same intense concentration he’d always had, his lips sliding over Harry as his hand wrapped around the base. Harry had lost track of time about when Zayn settled onto him but it felt like an instant, it felt like forever, before Harry was teetering on the edge, a sharper, more deadly edge than he’d been on for years, with that dark head between his legs and those shoulders hunched a bit, the muscles of his back moving, more of them now but still the same, and there was the fantail sneaking out underneath his hair—and then Zayn glanced up, a quick look from under his lashes, almost soft, and Harry was coming before he had time to warn Zayn.

Zayn kept his lips around him as he thrust helplessly, muttering inarticulate nothings about how good it felt how good he was, until he had rode out the aftershocks and had collapsed back into the chair. God, but he felt good. This was not how he had expected the night to go, but he was not objecting at all. Zayn had always been able to bring him to his knees, in this way as well as all the others.

The faint sound of a groan, of flesh against flesh, made Harry open his eyes again. Zayn was still on the floor, his forehead braced against Harry’s thigh, his fist moving. And that wouldn’t do, not at all. Harry reached down, grabbed at the closest bit of Zayn he could reach—his shirt collar, and pulled. “Come here,” he murmured lazily. Zayn went easily enough, up over Harry again, so Harry could lick into his mouth, taste him in there, as he pushed Zayn’s hand away and got his own around Zayn.

It was muscle memory, almost, knowing how to get Zayn off, how if he twisted here—if he rubbed the head then—then Zayn would come, burying his head into Harry’s shoulder so any sounds he made were muffled.

Harry let him lie there, draped over him, as long as he wanted, stroking down Zayn’s back through his t-shirt, as Harry drifted too. It really must have been too long since he’d gotten any, if a blow job felt this good.

Finally, Zayn lifted his head. His lips were swollen. It was just as good a look on him now as it had been at twenty. “You’ve been eating less fruit,” he accused, and Harry let out a laugh.

“Hey, I still eat plenty!” he objected.

“Pretty sure I have evidence to the contrary.”

“Sure your memory isn’t playing tricks on you?” Harry couldn’t bring himself to move as Zayn got off of him did his jeans back up. It was a pity. He’d always had a nice cock. He had half a thought of asking Zayn to stay, of pulling him the few feet to the bed and landing there together to learn him again—but he cut that off. He couldn’t ask that, not of Zayn. “You gonna be okay to get home?” he asked instead.

“Sobered me up pretty well,” Zayn agreed with a laugh. He took a final swig of wine, swirling it in his mouth with his nose wrinkled, then shrugged on his jacket and picked up his bag. “See you Monday?”

“Yeah.” Zayn ruffled Harry’s hair as he passed, that same offhand gesture of affection he’d fallen back into so quickly when he’d come to New York. “Text me when you get home?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Text me,” Harry repeated. He wouldn’t, of course, would forget within moments, but Harry could hope, and then he wouldn’t worry he’d gotten caught up in his book and ended up in the Bronx.

“Okay.” Zayn gave him a final grin, then let himself out.

Slowly, Harry let go of the arms of the chair, and let his head fall back. Fuckbuddies. He could do this. He couldn’t fuck this up.


	3. Chapter 2

_Wanda: Did you do the bio homework yet?_

_Dorothy: Of course, why?_

_Wanda: Let me copy?_

_Dorothy: No! Wanda, do your own!_

_Wanda: Let me copy, and I’ll tell you what Ralphie said Tim said Carlos said about you._

_Dorothy: No! You need to do your own. And I don’t know why I’d want to know what Carlos said about me._

_Wanda: Fine._

_\---_

_Wanda: Phoebe, you do your bio homework yet?_

_Phoebe: Sure. Need help?_

_Wanda: No time. Let me see it?_

_Phoebe: You’ll never learn if you don’t do it yourself, Wanda. Mr. Horan would be very disappointed if you cheated._

_Wanda: Mr. Horan would just laugh, it’s all he does._

_Phoebe: He’d be disappointed anyway._

_Wanda: Let me copy, and I’ll tell you what I heard about Mr. Malik and Mr. Styles._

_Phoebe: What? Wanda!_

_Wanda: Let me copy and I’ll tell you. I overheard Mr. Tomlinson talking to Coach Payne about it yesterday._

_Phoebe: Overheard?_

_Wanda:Yes. While I was listening. Whatever. Do you want to know or not?_

_Phoebe: Well…no. Do your homework, Wanda._

_Wanda: What is it with you people?_

_\---_

_Wanda: Hey, did you do your bio homework yet?_

_Keisha: No._

_Wanda: You didn’t?_

_Keisha: Oh, I did. But I’m not letting you copy._

_Wanda: You’re an awful friend, Keisha._

_\---_

_Wanda: Did you do the bio?_

_Arnold: Yeah, why? What’s wrong?_

_Wanda: Can I look at it?_

_Arnold: Sure, I guess._

_Wanda: Arnold, you’re my favorite._

_\---_

“So that’s why I felt your argument could be strengthened,” Zayn finished explaining, tracing the text of the conclusion paragraph with his red pen. “It’s not that it was bad—it was quite good—but you tended to focus on details rather than just using them to back up the overarching picture. It’s great that we know what Benedict says, but you could have just used one line to demonstrate how he uses hyperbole to show his love for Beatrice, rather than the whole monologue.”

“But the whole monologue is hyperbole,” Dorothy argued. Her jaw was jutting out like his sisters’ had used to, when their mother had ruled in the other’s favor. “So isn’t it better to show all of it?”

“Not when it distracts. Sometimes, too much detail distracts from the essential truth.” Dorothy nodded solemnly as she frowned at the paper. It was a good paper, and Zayn had told her that, but she was that type of student who would never be satisfied with simply good when it could be great. It was admirable, Zayn supposed, but not easy.

“Do you think it’s true, though?” she asked, brushing a lock of her bright blonde hair out of her face.

“What?”

“That…Beatrice and Benedict can be in love?” She turned to look at Zayn suddenly, blue eyes intent and demanding. “That even though he insults her all the time he can still love her?”

Right. Zayn was clueless, he knew, but not that clueless. “It depends,” he replied, slowly. Why did the conversation have to take this turn? He could talk about literature, about words that weren’t his, in ways he was trained to, but he hadn’t practiced this. He was going to mess up and do something wrong and then he’d be fired and—he cut himself off, took a deep breath in and out, like his therapist had suggested. Simplify the problem. What would he say to Safaa, if she had asked? It would be easier if it was his sister. “Not all boys—or girls—who insult you love you.”

She snorted. “I know that. I’m not a romantic, Mr. Malik.”

Zayn had to laugh at that. He wasn’t fucking this up yet, at least. “Aren’t you? Then why are you asking?”

“I just—” She heaved a sigh. “Look, you’re a guy, right?”

“Sure.”

“And you’ve had girlfriends before?”

“Sure.” Not many, but some.

“And you asked them out, right? That’s how it’s done. You actually asked.” She leaned forward, the pen stabbing against her copy of _Much Ado_ like it could be impaled in there. “You didn’t dance around it and never say anything and do something that might have been flirting but might just be teasing, right?”

Shit. Did they have to talk about him? Zayn let out a weak snort, because she had done that so it must have been okay etiquette. But at least he knew the answer to this one. Couldn’t they go back to talking about literature? “Not so much, usually. But I’ve been told I’m not good at starting relationships.” That was probably too much, he shouldn’t have said it. But he liked Dorothy, liked her drive and how she really examined the material, even if sometimes she forgot about things in her rush forward. And he liked her and Carlos, too, because he was a romantic. She needed his help, he was a teacher, he would give it. He could. He was capable of it. Breath in, breath out. “You could ask him.”

“My mom says boys don’t like that.” Dorothy’s brow furrowed. “Which is stupid, because it’s not emasculating and I don’t want to wait, but if it’ll mess things up—”

“Then it messes things up.” Zayn shrugged. He wished Harry were here, he was the one who knew how to give advice, how to talk to people about romance without sounding like an idiot. Or Louis, who might have been mildly insane but had somehow managed to get married in the mean time. What did Zayn know? “A good guy won’t care.”

“Would you care?”

“Haven’t before.” Zayn looked back down at the book. He was definitely not the right person for her to be talking to this. Weren’t there female teachers for this? Who knew the right thing to say?

“You’ve had girls ask you out before?”

“Some.” Her look faltered into what seemed like it was going to be a frown. He knew he was going to say the wrong thing. He had to fix it. “I mean, more boys than girls, but girls too. It just depends on the people.” Damn, that wasn’t better, it was probably worse, but the bell rang, thank God, and Dorothy stood up with a quick smile. “See you tomorrow.”

“At the auditions,” She corrected, putting her essay neatly into a pocket of a file folder, then closing it with the thread. “I’m stage managing.”

Auditions? Oh, right. The play. Those were this afternoon. He should probably write that down somewhere. “Great. And, Dorothy?” She looked back from the doorway. Harry was standing just within it, grinning fondly at him. When had he gotten here? Zayn shook his head to clear it. “Good luck.”

“Hmph.” She made an expressive sound, then hurried out.

Harry waited until she was gone before he came forward, approaching the desk. His tie was almost tolerable today, an emerald green that made his eyes light up and shone against the grey of his shirt—if only it hadn’t had pink polka dots. But somehow, being Harry, it didn’t look as awful as it should, like his smile could make anything look better. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Zayn smiled back, then looked down to shift Dorothy’s paper to the other side of his desk. “When you’d get here?”

“About when you started talking about all the times you’ve been asked out.” As usual, Harry perched on the edge of the desk, then made a disgruntled face down at him. “And here I was, thinking I was special.”

“You’re always special, babe.” Zayn retorted. He glanced at his desk, but it didn’t look like there was anything to do there, so he leaned back in his chair. “And we both know we’d never have gotten anywhere if you hadn’t said something.” Zayn certainly would never have said anything.

“Yeah.” Harry had reached up to twist a lock of hair between his fingers, like he always did when he was nervous. “Speaking of which.” He looked around, at the empty classroom, at the kids milling around outside before they headed to their last class of the day. Then he got up, closed the door, and came back over. But he didn’t lean against the desk this time, just crossed his arms over his chest, almost hunching. Zayn waited. Was some kid in trouble, that he didn’t want anyone to hear? “About Friday…”

Zayn raised his eyebrows. He thought they’d been pretty clear then. “What about it?”

“Zayn.” Harry sighed, and moved right to raking his hair back with a hand. “We have to talk about it.”

“We did talk about it.” Zayn let his gaze wander very pleasantly down Harry’s torso. Even now, his pants were tighter than anyone but him could probably get away with, but Zayn didn’t exactly mind. “Then we didn’t talk.”

“Yeah, I know, but—do you want…” Harry’s hands fisted in his hair, then slowly let go. “Did you mean that to be an ongoing thing? Or just that once?”

Now it was Zayn’s turn for his brow to furrow. “Did you only want it to be that once?” He’d been clear, he thought. Hadn’t really left much room for nuance. Hadn’t left much room for anything, in that way it got when he was drunk and not second-guessing every word he said. When he wasn’t afraid of what Harry would say, when he didn’t have room in his head for the consequences. “I mean, I thought—well, it still makes sense, to me. But I’d do just about anything to avoid going on the pull, so…” He trailed off with a wry shrug. He wasn’t going to push this. Last time, they had both pushed, and everything had exploded. This wasn’t the same, obviously, but still, he didn’t want to repeat history.

“It makes sense to me.” Harry wasn’t looking at him. “But…we didn’t do so well with this, last time.”

“We’re not twenty anymore.” Not twenty and insecure and so very confused about why someone like Harry would want him.

“Yeah.” Harry let out a long breath. “And, just fuckbuddies, right?”

“Right.” Really, it was a little insulting Harry kept pushing that. He got that Harry wasn’t in love with him, wasn’t going to fall in love with him again. That was fine, because he’d learned his lesson there too. He wasn’t the boyfriend Harry needed, and he knew that. He just didn’t need it driven quite so deep. “You’re free to do whatever you want otherwise.”

“And we stop, whenever one of us wants to?”

“Sure. One of us meets someone else they want to be exclusive with, we stop. No commitment. Do you need a safeword for this, Haz?” Zayn teased, just because Harry was looking so very serious. This wasn’t serious. This was easy. That was the whole point.

“You know my safeword.” Harry’s smile bloomed again, dimples appearing in his cheeks, and it was like Zayn could breathe again, having that smile fixed on him. He’d always made Zayn feel like that, like even breathing was easier. He made most people feel like that too, Zayn’d always thought, but that didn’t matter as long as it kept Zayn’s head afloat. “Yours hasn’t changed?”

“No, why—” Then Harry was moving, and leaning down to cup Zayn’s face and bring him in for a kiss. Zayn hadn’t had time to savor this, on Friday, to really remember how Harry’s kiss could walk that line of sweet and hot, how it felt like he was sucking all of Zayn into him at the touch.

They were both smiling when Harry pulled away, so Zayn had to poke at his dimples, to see them deepen. “Not gonna need my safeword at school, I hope.”

“That was to seal the deal.” Harry grinned. “But no promises.”

They always had been good at being creative. “Can’t wait.”

\---

_Dorothy: I HAVE NEWS_

_Phoebe: Calm down, D.A. What’s up?_

_Dorothy: Mr. Malik is definitely gay!_

_Keisha: …is this news?_

_Dorothy: Shut up Keisha. I have proof, now._

_Keisha: My gaydar was proof enough. I’m never wrong._

_Dorothy: What about that time when you tried to set Wanda and Ralphie up?_

_Keisha: We agreed never to talk about that. Phoebe, how are you handling this?_

_Phoebe: How’d you hear, D.A?_

_Dorothy: I was talking to him about my Much Ado paper, because I got a lower grade then I wanted and I wanted to hear why, and then we started talking about—about real life—and he mentioned that he’d been asked out by both guys and girls. And had liked both._

_Keisha: Talking about Carlos, you mean._

_Phoebe: Oh, D.A.! Are you going to ask him out? Will he be okay with that?_

_Dorothy: I didn’t say that at all, why are you saying that, Keisha? Mr. Malik’s gay! Didn’t you hear me?_

_Keisha: Still not news, D. Think it’s pretty clear. Have you seen his hair?_

_Phoebe: And that’s bi, not gay._

_Dorothy: Same difference._

_Phoebe: It means I can still fantasize…_

_Keisha: TMI, Pheebs._

_Phoebe: What? He just has that voice…_

_Dorothy: Can we not talk about this when I have his class next period? I won’t be able to look at him._

_Phoebe: I will._

_Keisha: Phoebe! What happened to you? Didn’t you used to be shy?_

_Phoebe: Well, I mean—it’s not like I would do anything. But it’s fun to think about. If someone who looked like him would look at me like…_

_Keisha: Like how Mr. Styles looks at him?_

_Phoebe: WHAT?_

_Dorothy: Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?_

_Keisha: She’s not at the play rehearsals. She wouldn’t._

_Keisha: Stop by sometime. You’ll see._

_Phoebe: Maybe I will. Now there’s an image…_

_Keisha: PHOEBE!!!!!!!!!_

_Phoebe: ;)_

\---

The problem with Zayn—what had always been the problem—was that Harry had never been able not to want him. He’d wanted him when he was nineteen and sitting in class next to him; he’d wanted him when he was twenty and they were falling apart. He’d wanted him when he was twenty-five, too; when Zayn had appeared at his school like something out of a dream Harry had always pretended he didn’t have, but he’d managed to forget that. To tamp down on that want. But he was twenty-six and he still wanted Zayn, and now that he had tasted him again all the walls he had built were toppling down.

It might have been easier if Zayn looked like he felt the same. If he was getting distracted at the auditions, if as another hopeless singer butchered _Anything Goes_ he was thinking about what he might do to Harry next time, how he might taste him, where he might. But he wasn’t. He was distracted, certainly; Harry could read him well enough to know that his staring into space wasn’t intense concentration on the song the freshman with the too-big sweatshirt and messy hair was trying to sing. But he wasn’t thinking about Harry.

Harry wasn’t in college anymore, of course. He didn’t need Zayn to think about him all the time, didn’t need Zayn like he had when he was nineteen and stupidly infatuated, when he had wanted Zayn all the time and had hated it that Zayn didn’t seem to have the same need. He was an adult now, and anyway, he shouldn’t be thinking about next times. They had had sex once, and they hadn’t even fucked. He didn’t have any claim to Zayn, and he didn’t want one. Didn’t dare want one.

But that didn’t make it easier to focus when Zayn’s knee was brushing against his thigh, when he could watch Zayn’s pencil run over the notebook in slow, idle strokes, like he’d used to touch Harry sometimes, when they were both lying sated on the tiny dorm beds. Would he still do that, Harry wondered? Or had he—

A truly horrific screech drew him out of his musings. Even Zayn jolted. On his other side, Louis winced. “That was…thanks for auditioning!” he called, as Dorothy ushered the kid off the stage. “Next!”

Next, it turned out, was a halfway decent junior. Then came a sophomore who clearly was auditioning as a joke, then a freshman who could barely open her mouth. Then there was a bit of a scuffle behind the curtains. Louis raised his eyebrows at it, but Harry took the opportunity to lean over, whisper in Zayn’s ear, “You okay?”

Zayn turned, so he could whisper back. It meant Harry’s lips brushed against his cheeks, a hint of roughness against his lips. “Yeah, ‘course. Why?”

“Look bored.”

Zayn shrugged. “Not sure why I’m here, really.”

“Because your opinion is valued!”

“Nah, I think Louis just wants to torture me.”

“That too,” Harry agreed, “And—oh, Arnold! I didn’t know you sang.”

The boy Dorothy had just literally dragged on stage gave a giggling laugh, yanking nervously on carrot orange hair. He’d always looked unfortunately like a carrot, Harry’d guiltily thought, tall and skinny and pale, his hazel eyes hidden by his glasses. “I—”

“He can,” Dorothy interrupted, tapping at her clipboard. “And we have a schedule, so, Arnold?”

Arnold glared. Zayn hid a smile behind a cough, and Louis looked more than a little skeptical, but they’d agreed to audition everyone, even Arnold, who tended to shy away from the spotlight. He wasn’t even in Chorus, or any music classes.

“Okay. I’ve got a bit from ‘It’s De-Lovely’, if that’s all right? I wasn’t really planning—”

“That’s fine.”

Louis’s voice was a bit crisp, so Harry gave a beaming smile to make up for it. “Go ahead, whenever you’re ready.”

He hadn’t been expecting much—he didn’t think any of them had—but even if he had expected things, he wouldn’t have anticipated this. The boy seemed to light up when he sang, a strong, smooth tenor pouring out of him, as he forgot his nerves, his awkward stance, in favor of a smile that almost took over his face.

That light drained out of him the instant he stopped, his shoulders hunching over, his smile fading. “Was that okay?”

It was Zayn who spoke first. “That was great, Arnold,” he said gravely, “Thanks for auditioning.”

“I—”

Louis had clearly collected himself. “Brilliant! Why haven’t you been here before?” he demanded, then kept going without waiting for an answer. “Dorothy, you’ve officially proved your worth in bringing him in. Next!”

Arnold hadn’t quite finished stammering out his thanks before Dorothy was yanking him away and the next kid took his place.

“He was good, right?” This time it was Zayn leaning into Harry. For a second, Harry had almost forgotten Zayn was sitting next to him, with his dark eyes and perfect face and those fingers that had always known how to turn Harry into a mess. His voice felt rough against Harry’s face, an almost tangible thing, and Harry tried not to shiver with it. He’d always had a thing for Zayn’s voice, almost as much as for his body. No one had really understood that, but then, no one every really heard him talk except for Harry.

Harry blinked. Here and now. “Yeah,” Harry agreed. Zayn’s hip was nudging against his. “You know enough to judge that.”

“Not like you do.”

Harry rolled his eyes, even if Zayn couldn’t see him. “Your voice was always as good as mine. But yeah, he was good.”

“Good.” Zayn’s smile from far away was a problem, from up close, it was devastating, where Harry could count every crinkle at the corner of his eyes and every sparkle in his anime eyes. “Always had a soft spot for an underdog.”

“I know.” Harry leaned back, away from that. They’d gotten off once. That was all. Maybe they’d get off again. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. Maybe he’d pull Zayn into his office tonight, and get some of this want out, but that was it. He didn’t get to look at Zayn’s smile like that, so close. Not after last time. “So do I.”

“You always did,” Zayn murmured his agreement, then sat back like it was nothing, like he didn’t want to just climb into Harry’s lap and mutter filthy things to him in that hoarse whisper until Harry was a mess under him.

Not that Harry needed him to, or anything. He was fine. It was just maybe a bit lucky that they had to sit down for another half hour.

_\---_

Zayn had just settled into bed with a book and a beer when his phone buzzed. He resisted the urge to sigh—it was only eleven, it wasn’t actually that late, he knew—and rolled across the queen bed that was one of his few concessions to luxury to where he had thrown his phone.

_You shouldd cme ver_

This time Zayn did roll his eyes. Harry had a habit of making him do that.

_You drunk, babe? Bit early._

He set his phone on the windowsill that functioned as a bedside table for lack of space for anything else in the room, took a sip of beer, and opened his book again. There were even odds Harry would totally forget he had texted anything and wouldn’t look at his phone again all night, if he was out. It had driven Zayn crazy, once; now he knew better. Harry would text back when he did. And Zayn getting mad at someone not texting him back was pretty hypocritical, he could admit.

But he had only turned one page of _Saint Joan_ when his phone buzzed again.

_Only a bit. Went out for drinks after rehearsal. You should come ovvvvver Zaynie. Want you._

It got another smile out of Zayn. This what he had wanted, after all, when he started this thing. And it felt good, in a part of him that was still twenty and sitting by his phone half-waiting for it to ring, to know that he was better than anyone Harry could get out and about. Or easier, maybe, Zayn allowed. But still, the idea of going out—of leaving the apartment—it made Zayn shudder. Even the thought of just being around the strangers on the train made his skin crawl.

_Settled in already, don’t feel like leaving. Another time?_

There was a longer pause this time, enough for Zayn to turn two pages, for him to figure that Harry had given up on him for greener pastures. It didn’t hurt as much now, thinking about that. Not now that Zayn didn’t have expectations.

_I could come over to yours. If you want company._

_Do you want to be company?_ It was probably malicious or something, to put this on Harry. But he didn’t want to make Harry feel like he had to come back. Didn’t want to cage him in, just because the thought of leaving his apartment tonight and braving the train sounded about as appealing as stabbing himself with blunt knives.

_I want you to fuck me_.

Zayn nearly dropped the phone. Harry had always been blunt and shameless, but still he wasn’t prepared for that. How Harry had just said it. Was he this shameless with everyone—but no. Zayn shouldn’t think that way. He didn’t have a right, and he didn’t want to have a right. Old habits. Old habits he had broken.

Before Zayn had a chance to reply, another text buzzed in. _Been thinking about it all night. Remember the time in the Kappa house’s backyard? Been thinking about that a lot._

Fuck. _How soon can you get here?_

_In Williamsburg. Forty minutes, with weekend trains?_

_I’ll be waiting._

Fucking hell. Zayn pushed his hair out of his face, took a deep breath. Forty minutes. Harry would probably be thinking about it the whole ride up, too, shifting on his seat, with his cheeks flushed like they always got when he was tipsy. Thinking about that time at Kappa, when Zayn had been three drinks from blackout and hadn’t been able to stop himself, hadn’t been able to not grab Harry and pull him outside when he saw how everyone wanted to talk to him, to be near him. He had pushed Harry into the wall, fucked him there, rough and so unhealthy he could almost blush to think about it now, the abandon he had felt then. Like if he did this, he could make everyone remember that they might all have him at parties, when he glowed like the sun everyone else orbited around, but Zayn had him like this. Right now, Zayn had him.

Harry had gotten off on it too, less drunk then Zayn but just as desperate, his fingers digging into Zayn’s shoulders hard enough that they had left marks the next day, marks Harry had kissed and grinned at, panting things about ‘please’ and ‘now’ and ‘don’t care how just want you now, want you so much, do you want me?’ and Zayn had thrust wildly into him, because he could give him this. They had already been falling apart then, Zayn’s insecurities throwing him into the downward cycle that he wouldn’t get out of without years and therapy, but that night… Zayn still got off to that night sometimes, when he needed wank fodder.

So if Harry said he was thinking about that, well, Zayn wasn’t going to say no. But that was forty minutes away, so he picked his book up. He’d do a few pages, he figured. Distract himself, so he made it those forty minutes without preempting everything.

The buzzer going off made him jump and drop his book. Fuck. He glanced at his phone—11:50. Yeah. Okay.

He scrambled off the bed, over all two steps of the living room to hit the button to let the door open. He propped the door open as the door downstairs swung open, fell shut, then there were footsteps on the stairs downstairs and Harry’s hair came into view a second before he did.

Harry grinned when he saw him, and his feet thundered as he took the last flight of stairs. But he paused in the doorway, even when Zayn took a step back to let him in.

“Hey.” He ran a hand through his hair. The dimples were fading in his cheeks, and he shifted almost nervously. “I—”

Zayn rolled his eyes, closed the door behind him, then pushed Harry against it. This had always been the one thing he was sure of between them.

Harry went willingly, and kissed Zayn back even more willingly, pulling him in as Zayn tasted the vodka on his lips, then the sweat of his skin as he licked at his jaw. He’d always loved Harry’s jawline, the subtle strength of it, and when he bit into where it met his neck Harry moaned, his fingers grasping at Zayn’s shoulders like that long ago back yard.

“Fuck, yeah, Zayn,” Harry muttered. His hips were grinding against Zayn’s, shameless and needy. He’d always been talkative. “Yeah, I was thinking about this, please—”

“What were you thinking about?” Zayn asked, and went back to exploring Harry’s throat. It had thickened with age, it felt like, gotten soldier. All of him had, Zayn’s hands were finding, as they ran down his back to grab at his ass and pull him in. He didn’t feel like a kid anymore, he felt like a man.

“You.” Harry’s voice went high when Zayn bit at the top of the moth, as he pushed the open lapels of his shirt aside to keep exploring down his throat. “You doing this, like you—fuck, fuck me, please, want you to—”

Zayn pulled away, though he stayed close enough that he could be touching Harry everywhere. But he made sure to look Harry in the eyes when he asked, “How drunk are you?”

“Not drunker than you were last week,” Harry retorted. This time it was him who pulled Zayn in for a long, slow, languorous kiss, one that lingered, that seemed to say things Zayn didn’t know how to articulate. “Plenty of consent, just, please.”

Zayn’d never been able to say no to Harry, and especially not like this, desperate and hard against his thigh, vibrating under his hands. “Come on.” He tugged Harry back, through the apartment, to the bedroom where they could fall onto the bed together, then roll over so Zayn ended up straddling Harry’s hips.

God, but Harry was a picture, lying there with his hair a mess around his face, his shirt open, his cheeks flushed and lips so pink. How had Zayn gone seven years without this?

“Zayn,” Harry moaned, rolling his hips. Zayn focused. He wanted to find out what had changed in seven years, how Harry had; what was new about this body he’d once known as well as his own.

So he explored, with lips and fingers and sometimes the scrape of teeth, just to see Harry’s hips buck and his head fall back. His chest was thicker now, bulkier; his stomach a little harder. But he tasted the same, and he still went desperate and needy when Zayn flicked at his nipples, his fingers digging into Zayn’s back as he did his own exploration of Zayn’s skin.

“C’mon, Zayn, want you,” he whined, finally, as Zayn got to his navel, nipped right below it to see if it got the same groan it always got, “Stop teasing, come on.”

“Not teasing,” Zayn argued, following the bite with his tongue, “I’m taking my time.”

“I don’t.” Somehow, Harry’d got his hands on the hem of Zayn’s shirt, and tugged, and he pulled it off easily, so Harry could see him too. He’d never felt like not enough when they were here, with Harry looking at him with those burning eyes. “And I’ve been waiting for this for a week.”

“Impatient,” Zayn laughed, but he pressed a kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry caught his head there, kept him there long enough that it made the heat flare in Zayn, more than the simmer it had been, like Harry had always been able to do, turn him on with dirty lips and his body beneath him. “Fuck, yeah, okay.”

He stopped kissing Harry long enough to go for the top drawer of his dresser, where—fuck. There was nothing there. Did he even have condoms? He didn’t remember, he didn’t even know when he’d last gotten off with someone.

“Zayn?”

“I—I think there might be, in the bathroom?”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “You’re really lucky I know you,” he chuckled, and when Zayn glanced back at him, he had lifted his hips so he could dig in his back pocket, could get out the lube and condom he tossed on the bed. “I stopped,” he explained, shimmying out of his jeans and boxers as he did. “Just in case.”

Zayn swallowed. Harry’d always been gorgeous, and age hadn’t changed that, those long legs and his cock, hard and flushed. “Yeah?” he asked, moving back over Harry so he could grab the lube. “You think about this, when you bought them? Think about me?”

“’Course. I—fuck,” he moaned, as Zayn slid a finger into him. “Yeah, Zayn, there—”

“Think about me doing this?” Zayn purred, sensual as he could, “Opening you up, making you ache for me?”

“Zayn, I—” Harry’s fingers scrabbled at Zayn’s back, and it was the same as ever, this Zayn knew how to do, how to make him want, how to get him ready, where to crook his finger to make him moan and make him fuck himself back on Zayn’s fingers. None of that had changed, not really, but Zayn had, he hoped, had learned things, and he wanted Harry to know that. That he wasn’t twenty and desperate to prove everything to Harry.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Harry moaned, finally, as Zayn slid three fingers out of him, “Come on, fuck me, please, now.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed. He shoved his sweats off, breath catching when his cock was freed. He was hard too, hard and wanting, so he hitched Harry’s knees up and lined himself up. “You good?”

“Zayn,” Harry whined, and Zayn laughed and kissed him as he slid in slowly. Fuck, but Harry felt so _good_ still, hot and tight, so perfect always, and it took all of Zayn’s discipline to wait until Harry broke away from the kiss to babble how Zayn needed to “Move, now,” to start thrusting into him.

They still moved so well together, Harry’s legs wrapped around his waist pulling him in, their skin slapping together, Zayn’s hand wrapping around Harry’s cock as he thrust, and Zayn knew this, always had. Harry was panting under him, his face red and gorgeous. He was close, Zayn knew, because his tells really hadn’t changed, so Zayn changed the angle, pulled Harry’s legs up a little more, and Harry moaned and came.

Zayn paused to watch, keeping his hand moving on his cock to milk out the last of it. He’d loved to watch this, Harry like this, Harry like this because of him. Not that that mattered anymore. But it was still as breathtaking as ever, how Harry’s face went slack and pleased.

“Go on,” Harry finally panted, and Zayn bit back a moan as he did, thrusting a few more times until Harry drew him back down into another messy, sloppy kiss that had him coming too.

He collapsed onto Harry after, burying his face into his neck, where he’d once left marks to claim him every way he could.

“Damn,” Harry said at last. “So, we know that still works.”

Zayn grunted his agreement, then groaned and eased out of Harry before it got really gross and uncomfortable. He pulled off the condom, tied it and threw it away, then dragged himself to the bathroom for a washcloth. He’d never been so thankful the apartment was tiny before, but at least it didn’t take long for him to fall back into bed with Harry, to clean off his stomach as Harry giggled at the tickling, then to settle back next to him.

“Still good?” Zayn asked. Fuck. That was wrong, he knew it, he shouldn’t have said that, but it was out now.

“Better.” Harry grinned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You didn’t used to do that thing with your hips, the sort of swivel?”

“Glad I’ve improved,” Zayn laughed. Glad he’d passed. Apparently that urge hadn’t faded entirely, that need to be enough for Harry. But it wasn’t eating him alive either, and he could just relax here, warm and sated with Harry next to him. “Fuck. Glad you came over.”

“Me too.” Harry pecked at his lips, then sat up, and rolled out of bed. Zayn watched him, pursing his looks in confusion.

“Where are you going?”

Harry paused midway through pulling his jeans on. “Going home, Zayn.”

“Why?” It was late. Zayn wanted to sleep.

Harry sighed, and pulled his jeans on the rest of the way. Zayn really did love how tight his pants always were, even now. How he looked as he walked over to the bed, pressed another kiss to Zayn’s forehead. “Because fuckbuddies don’t stay over, Zaynie. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Sure.” Zayn yawned. “Thanks.”

Harry paused in the doorway, looking back. His lips curled upwards, but it wasn’t really a grin. “Any time, Zayn,” he said. Zayn was asleep before the front door closed behind him.

\---

“So, how have things been going with Zayn?”

Harry very nearly dropped the scenery. Luckily he managed not to, since it was very heavy and would have landed either on his toes or on Liam’s, and either way it would have hurt, but the question still made him stumble.

“What do you mean?” He hefted the scenery higher, glanced around to see if Zayn was nearby. Not that he needed to. Zayn was down on the theater floor, running lines with Arnold. But he didn’t like that he knew that, so he checked anyway. “Like, as friends?”

“Harry.” Liam said it in the way he had, where it was a statement. He didn’t even trip as he walked backwards towards the wings. It really wasn’t fair that he could do that. Sure, he was the gym teacher, but still.

Harry sighed. “What do you mean?” he repeated. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t. It had been three weeks of nothing, of meeting up after work to fall into bed. Three weeks of late night train rides for one of them. Three weeks of learning Zayn again, learning where he’d grown and where he hadn’t, learning all the new aspects of him. Three weeks of Zayn in his bed, smiling sleepily up at him, of Zayn grinning as he pushed him into bed. But it was nothing.

“Sure.” Liam nodded, then huffed out a breath as he lifted the backdrop higher. Harry scrambled to match him. He didn’t see why he had to do this. He wasn’t at all sure that Louis’s ‘you’re the second strongest one here’ logic was accurate. Zayn had always been freakishly strong despite his wiry limbs, and Louis had his moments, and just because Harry was taller than them didn’t mean he was stronger. “But you are sleeping together.”

Harry almost dropped the backdrop again. “What?” he managed not to screech, but it still came out louder than he expected, so all the heads in the auditorium turned to him. “What?” he repeated once they had turned back, quieter, “We—I mean—”

Liam’s face wrinkled up. “Sorry, was that a secret? I didn’t realize.”

“Did Zayn tell you?” Harry demanded. They hadn’t said anything explicitly about it being a secret, but he’d thought it was pretty implied.

“What? No.” Liam snorted. It was a pretty ridiculous idea. Not Zayn confiding in Liam, because Harry was pretty sure he did that, but him thinking it was important enough to talk about. “But you aren’t subtle. I mean, we all knew you were in love with him the minute he started here.”

This time, Harry did drop the backdrop. Luckily, they had already been in the process of putting it down, so it was only a few inches and didn’t land on anyone’s toes. “What? No I wasn’t!”

“You sure?” Liam’s head tilted as he shook out his arms, rolled his neck. Harry just wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Because I…”

“I’m sure.” Harry said it as firmly as he could. He wasn’t in love with Zayn. He couldn’t be in love with Zayn, because they had tried that and he had broken it. Broken them. He was fond of Zayn now, maybe even loved him as a friend, but he couldn’t be in love with him. It wouldn’t be fair to Zayn. “I probably just act weird towards him because of the whole exes thing. That’s it.”

“It’s been seven years, Harry.”

“Still, you don’t forget those patterns.” The good patterns, because there had been good patterns. How Harry had gotten into the habit of texting Zayn ten minutes before he needed to be somewhere important to make sure he got there. How Zayn had had tea ready when Harry came home on wet days. They still did that, of course. But as friends. “It’s nothing, Liam. We aren’t in love or anything.”

“If you say so.” Liam patted Harry on the shoulder. It didn’t feel very believing. “Want to get the next one?”

“Want?” Harry asked, and Liam laughed as they headed across the stage for the next backdrop. It was louder over here, with the stage crew laughing as they painted under Louis’s very vocal direction. He appeared to be running some sort of contest the rules of which Harry didn’t understand but involved a lot of drop cloths and plenty of kids with paint on their clothes.

“Okay, Lou.” Liam gave a mock salute. “Your hired muscle, ready for our next assignment.”

“That makes it sound like he’s paying us,” Harry pointed out, with a grin.

Louis snorted. “I am paying you with fun,” he retorted. “And like you’re lifting much of anything, Styles. We both know Liam’s doing all the work.”

“Hey!” Harry retorted. That wasn’t fair either. He was doing plenty of work. Even if he didn’t want to.

“Yeah, come on, Tommo.” Zayn grinned at Harry from where he had appeared next to him, somehow. “We all know he’s more muscled than you are.”

“I take offense to that!” Louis glanced around. “Dorothy, I need your professional opinion.”

“Yeah?” Dorothy scurried over, her face alight with excitement at being able to help. Sometimes, Harry worried a bit about her. “I need to make sure the Angels are rehearsing, though.”

“That will wait. Now.” Louis grabbed Harry so he was standing next to him. “Who’s more muscled, me or Mr. Styles?”

Her face turned bright red. “What?” she gaped, “I mean, I don’t think I should—I couldn’t—I didn’t—”

“Mr. Styles,” a voice came from the nearest backdrop.

“What? Keisha!” Louis clutched his hands dramatically over his heart. “You wound me!”

The girl who had yelled shot him a thumbs up before pushing her frizzy black hair behind a headband and narrowing her eyes at the seascape she was working on.

“That’s why she would be my favorite, if all my students weren’t my favorite,” Harry told Louis, who stuck his tongue out, then waved his hand at Dorothy.

“Thank you, Dorothy. You’ve been no help. Go do your job.”

“But—I—”

“He’s joking, Dorothy,” Zayn interjected, putting a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes widened. Harry was betting she might never be washing that shoulder again. He could sympathize. “Go check on the Angels. Want me to come?”

“Um, no, I should be fine.”

“You sure?” Harry asked, nodding over to where the group of seven girls sat, giggling at the boy cracking jokes in the center.

At that, Dorothy’s shoulders went back, and her eyes narrowed. “Carlos!” She snapped, her voice echoing across the stage as she stalked across it. Carlos’s head jerked over to her, and for a second he actually looked afraid, but then his face relaxed into his big grin.

“D.A! Which Angel are you?”

“All the ones you don’t have,” she retorted, stabbing him in the chest with her pen. “Why are you distracting my actors?”

Carlos lifted his hands, palm up. “I was occupying them while you got instructions for your very important job, clearly.”

“And that had to include flirting with them?”

“He—”

“Be quiet,” Dorothy ordered Chastity (who was actually a quite charming and actually probably pretty chaste Freshman named Megan, who would be a good singer soon if she ever got the confidence to project). “You four, run scene one. Carlos, go…do whatever it is you do when you’re not annoying me.”

“Plan out how to annoy you?”

“It’s going to be so sad when they finally get together,” Louis mused, as they watched Dorothy shoo Carlos away with her clipboard, finally succumbing to laughter as he danced out of the way. “This is better than TV.”

“What TV are you watching?” Zayn asked, and giggled when Louis swatted at his head, ducking behind Harry so he missed.

Harry kept his hands at his sides. If they were going out, if he were more than just a fuckbuddy, he’d play at defending Zayn, probably bat at Louis’s hands until he left him alone. But as they weren’t, he just let Zayn dart to the other side of him, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

“I’ll get you sometime, Malik,” Louis promised, then turned his gaze back to the students, about half of who were watching them with looks between horror, confusion, and amusement, depending on their age. “Haven’t you ever seen a man defend his honor before? Come on, paint! We want to get out of here at a decent hour.”

Harry glanced at his watch at that. “Speaking of, Zayn. Didn’t you have book club tonight?”

“What—”

“Wednesday.”

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Then you’ve got to go.”

“I do?” Zayn glanced at his own wrist, where the least used watch in history sat heavy around his thin wrists. “Oh, shit, I do. Thanks.”

He turned, and he was already next to Harry so when he pulled Harry into a hug it felt just like an extension of them, like it was what they were always meant to be. Harry hugged him back without squeezing, let go when it felt like Zayn was pulling away. He knew this drill.

But Zayn lingered, his mouth an inch from Harry’s ear, so his breath dislodged Harry’s hair and his shoulder brushed against Zayn’s chest. “You know, I’ll be in Brooklyn anyway. I could stop by after.”

“You could,” Harry agreed. Even the words sent heat coiling through him in anticipation. Somehow, his hand was on Zayn’s hip to steady him. It was amazing how that happened. “I’ll be home.”

“See you later, then,” Zayn breathed, then settled back down on his toes. “See you, Liam,” he told Liam with a bright smile, then headed over to Louis, his arm sliding across Louis’s back as they leaned close to confer.

Harry looked away from that—from Zayn in his big sweaters, how his hair curled at the collar, how there was enough room between the hem and his trousers that Harry could slide his hands under—but unfortunately, that brought him right into sight of Liam’s skeptical face. “What?”

Liam just kept giving him that flat look.

“What?” Harry said again. “That was,” he lowered his voice. “A booty call. Not a date.”

“Uh-huh.” Liam still didn’t look convinced. But Harry was right, he knew. It was just a booty call because they had always been good together in bed and as long as it was just sex he couldn’t mess it up again. “Should we see what Lou wants us to do?”

“Yeah, probably,” Harry agreed, and trotted after Liam. Zayn never ate at book club, he should probably grab some pizza or something…

\---

_Keisha: I have gossip_

_Ralphie: oooh, what?_

_Keisha: Nothing you’ll care about. Meant to only send this to the girls, sry_

_Carlos: no, now you have to tell us!_

_Keisha: Do I?_

_Carlos: Yeah. Tell us._

_Carlos: Tell us_

_Carlos: Tell us._

_Tim: Can you please tell us so he’ll shut up?_

_Phoebe: I’m very curious!_

_Dorothy: I just want Carlos to be quiet._

_Carlos: No you don’t, D.A. Tell the truth, I’m a welcome distraction to your rehearsal._

_Dorothy: You’re a pain, is what you are. My Angels never pay attention when you’re here._

_Arnold: why are you texting when he’s literally sitting next to you?_

_Keisha: Can we come back to the important question? My gossip!!!!!_

_Arnold: Why are you texting that, too? Most of us are here._

_Keisha: Because I don’t want any of the teachers to hear._

_Phoebe: Just tell us already!_

_Keisha: Okay. Ready for this? Mr. Malik and Mr. Styles used to date!_

_Phoebe: !!!!!!!_

_Dorothy: Really?_

_Phoebe: !!!!!!!_

_Dorothy: how’d you hear? Do you know it for sure?_

_Arnold: Why are we freaking out about this?_

_Keisha: I overheard Coach Payne and Mr. Styles talking earlier. I’m almost certain._

_Phoebe: oh how romantic!_

_Ralphie: Romantic? They broke up!_

_Phoebe: And now they’ve found each other again!_

_Tim: How? They’re at the same school sure, but doesn’t found each other mean they’re going out again? And they aren’t, right?_

_Dorothy: Not yet._

_Tim: DA?_

_Tim: …_

_Tim: Carlos, get it out of her._

_Carlos: Sir yes sir! I will use all my wiles. I will even be wily. A coyote, one might say._

_Keisha: CARLOSSSS_

_Phoebe: Carlos_

_Tim: Carlos_

_Arnold: carlos_

_Ralphie: carlossssss_

_Wanda: CAAAAAAAARLOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS_

_Carlos: Thanks Wanda. I needed that._


	4. Chapter 3

Zayn shivered as he rapped on Harry’s door. It was warmer in the entranceway than outside, but he still hadn’t thawed out from the ten minute walk from the subway. He should probably have looked at the weather report and seen that snow was expected. But he hadn’t, and now he wrapped his arms around himself as a thump sounded behind the door, a low curse that made Zayn smile, then the door was opening to Harry’s wide grin. He looked warm, in jeans and a big sweatshirt, his cheeks a little flushed already.

“Hey!” The grin fell off his face when he looked at Zayn, his lips coming together in his displeased pout. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” When Harry stepped aside, Zayn came in. It was definitely warmer in here—Harry always had run cold, so he would of course keep his apartment hot—but Zayn still shivered again as he pushed his wet hair out of his face.

“You’re soaked!” Harry grabbed at Zayn’s wet jacket to peel it off of him. “And, fuck,” he swore as Zayn’s hand brushed over his. “You’re freezing.”

“It’s snowing.”

“Yeah, thanks, I noticed.” Harry glared at Zayn’s wet coat—wool really wasn’t the best in a heavy snowfall, it seemed—before he hung it on one of the hooks next to the door. Then he turned the glare at Zayn—or rather, at Zayn’s sweater, which was admittedly rather flimsy. “That all you had on?”

“Yeah? Didn’t know it was going to snow.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Harry huffed out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but he grabbed Zayn’s hands anyway, cupping them between his palms. Harry’s hands were almost hot enough to burn, against Zayn’s frozen fingers, but it felt so good, Harry close and warm and Zayn had to lean into it, really, into that heat. “Do you even have gloves?”

“Yes!” Zayn protested. He wasn’t totally helpless. “They’re just at the school,” he admitted, and dropped his head. He didn’t miss Harry’s grin, though.

“Of course they are.” Harry gave their hands a final squeeze, then let go to cross to the closet at the end of the tiny hall leading to the bathroom. Zayn wrapped his arms around himself as he watched, so he almost didn’t catch the clothes that flew at him, especially as Harry’s aim had never been good. “Okay,” Harry announced, turning away from the closet with a towel in his hands. “You, dry off and get into warm things. I’m making soup.”

“Harry—”

“Zayn.” Harry gave him the firm look he gave students when they got too unruly for even his casual discipline. “If you’re not going to take care of yourself, you can let me do it for you.”

“I do take care of myself,” Zayn muttered, and pulled off his shirt.

Harry muttered something and turned to the stove while Zayn stripped down to his boxers, then slid into the sweatpants and sweatshirt Harry had given him. They were too big, of course—always had been—but they were warm nevertheless, and comforting like wearing Harry’s clothes always had been, smelling the same detergent Harry had used in college. Even the size made them better. Zayn had always liked stealing Harry’s clothes, back in college. Had liked feeling close to him, even when he was in his dorm and Harry was out at parties, only stumbling in late smelling of beer.

They felt the same now, sort of; the same warmth and welcome. Zayn rolled up the sleeves of the sweatshirt once by habit, then towel-dried his hair and tossed the towel into the pile of wet clothes. He was already a lot warmer. So he made his way over to the kitchen where Harry hummed over a pot, and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, hiding his grin in Harry’s neck when Harry jumped.

“Zayn!” Harry bit out, higher pitched than normal. “Don’t surprise me when I’m cooking.”

“Just warming up.” Harry was warm, even more so than his clothes, Zayn thought as he pressed his face into the skin of Harry’s neck, pulled them closer until his front was pressed close to Harry’s back. Or, he felt hot. It also felt a bit like he was shivering. “You okay?”

“What? Yeah.” Harry’s voice still hadn’t settled, but he mixed the soup with a steady hand around the wooden spoon.

“You sure?” Zayn grinned, as he turned his head to press his lips into Harry’s neck instead. He had come here with a purpose, after all.

“Yeah. Now stop. Soup first, sex after.”

“Or sex now.”

“Did you eat dinner?”

“I…” Zayn thought. “There were snacks at book club.”

“What sort of snacks?”

“Um…” he’d definitely had some, he thought. He’d gotten a bit caught up in their discussion of _The Things They Carried_ , but he knew he’d eaten something… “Cookies?”

“Don’t count.” Harry let go of the spoon to detach Zayn’s arms. “Now go grab yourself a bowl.”

Zayn pressed another kiss into Harry’s neck. He smelled really good, like he always did; cinnamon and something musky. It felt like comfort. “You could warm me up another way…”

“Later,” Harry chuckled. But he didn’t object when Zayn pushed up to press a kiss to his lips, even opened his mouth and let Zayn slide his tongue in, his hands moving to bracket Harry’s hips. When Zayn tried to deepen the kiss, though, Harry pulled away. “No. Bowl. Go.”

“Fine,” Zayn sighed, and let Harry go to grab a bowl from the cabinet over the sink.

They ate on the couch—or Zayn did, anyway—while Harry sat at the other end, his toes tucked under Zayn’s thigh. The soup was good—just Campbell’s, Harry demurred when Zayn mentioned it—and maybe Harry was right. Maybe it did warm him up even more than sex would have, from the inside out. Although Zayn still thought Harry’s cock might have done it just as well.

“I think the musical’s coming along nicely, don’t you?” Harry said, paging idly through the book he had picked up but not started concentrating on. He liked to do that, multi-task. Zayn had never really figured that bit out.

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed, once he had swallowed a noodle-heavy mouthful. “I mean, the kids are learning their lines well. Don’t know about the music.”

“Yeah you do.” Zayn opened his mouth to protest, but Harry kept on talking. “But it’s going well. Pitchy, obviously, but it’s sounding better. Arnold’s great.”

“I didn’t expect that,” Zayn admitted. He’d always liked Arnold, but…”He always seemed too much like me to have stage presence.”

“Really?” Harry grinned at him, gave him a pointed look. “I did.”

Harry always had had some blind spots when it came to Zayn. He hadn’t used to say anything about it, had liked how Harry looked at him too much, when he said something in class and Harry had gaped like it was the most brilliant thing anyone had ever said even when it was utterly inane. Zayn had corrected him, sometimes, but sometimes…Sometimes it was nice to have Harry look at him like that, that boy who drew everyone’s attention like a moth to flames.

“Well,” Zayn muttered into his soup. “You’ve always been better at reading people.”

“Usually,” Harry agreed, then sighed and tipped his head back, so all Zayn could see was the dip of his collarbone, that pale skin just waiting to be marked. He took another, larger spoonful of soup. When Zayn didn’t say anything more, he went on, “I have to talk to Jack Arthur’s parents next week.”

“Hm?” Zayn tilted the bowl to get the last bit of liquid.

“Yeah, I thought he would be willing to work and do chamber orchestra like they wanted, but he’s just really not up to par. Don’t really want to tell them that, though.” Zayn slurped down the last of the noodles, set the bowl on the table, and turned on the couch. Harry’s head was still tipped back so he couldn’t see him. “But, I don’t want him bringing the other kids down either. Maybe if I give him something more in the concert—”

He cut off when Zayn climbed on top of him, his hands coming up to Zayn’s hips like instinct when Zayn braced his own on either side of Harry’s head on the arm of the couch. “Hey,” he said again, and dimpled when he grinned.

“I’m warm now,” Zayn announced, and leaned down to kiss him.

\---

After, it was Harry who dragged himself up off the couch to get a washcloth. When he came back, he had a look on his face that wasn’t quite displeased, but wasn’t quite content either. “It’s really coming down,” he said, nodding towards the window, where the usual view of the street outside was obscured by white. “You can’t go home in this.”

“We’ve got school tomorrow.”

Harry shook his head. “You’ll freeze, Zayn. And you won’t get back until way too late. Just…” he trailed off, bit his lip, shook his head, then nodded. Zayn watched in confusion. That was a lot of motions. “Just stay here.”

“I don’t have clothes, or—” Harry cut him off before he could get to the more important things.

“You can borrow stuff from me, we’ll tell people you got snowed in after book club if they notice. Which isn’t even a lie.” Harry grinned, but the dimples didn’t show. He looked almost scared, if he ever got scared. “Means we have time for another round,” he pointed out, and grabbed Zayn’s hands to pull him up to standing.

Zayn groaned. “Then why do I—” Harry pulled him over to the bed, then pushed him down and sunk between his legs. Screw this. He had some pills at Carrington, he could take them when he got in. “Okay, you have a good point.”

“Don’t I?” Harry agreed, dimples flashing. Zayn might have argued, but he really didn’t have a leg to stand on.

\---

Harry woke to the ding of a text message. Which meant it was before his alarm, because he always woke up to his alarm, so he kept his eyes closed, burrowed closer into the warmth of his bed, into the steady heat wrapped around his back. He could fall back asleep like this, he knew, with an arm over his waist and Zayn’s breath and his neck and—Fuck.

Harry’s eyes opened on that thought, on the realization of just who was curled up behind him, bare chest to his back. Right. Zayn. Here. School.

With a groan, Harry reached out to grab his phone, noted the text from Liam, swiped it open to read.

_Snw dayy!!!!!!_ It announced. Harry grinned despite himself, shot back a smiley face, a snowflake, and a thumbs up emoji, then tossed his phone back on the bedside table. He could got back to sleep. Could just bring the blankets back over them and huddle into Zayn’s warmth and get lost there. It was so easy to sleep here. So easy to let Zayn’s arms keep away everything else, keep away the whole world so it was just them. They’d always been okay when it was just them, they could be okay again…

No. No, they couldn’t, and Harry knew that, because he’d hurt Zayn again. So instead of closing his eyes, he extracted himself from Zayn, and got out of bed. Zayn just made some sort of snuffling sound and curled himself up more. Harry couldn’t help his grin, couldn’t help smoothing out the hair over his face. Zayn always had slept like the dead. When Harry had slept over in college, he’d always been up earlier. Sometimes he had brought back breakfast for them both from the dining halls, so Zayn had drank his coffee and eaten the bagel Harry coaxed into him while Harry had munched on his fruit, the two of them squeezed together on Zayn’s bed and Zayn’s head falling onto Harry’s shoulder between bites. Harry had always loved those moments, when Zayn was soft and warm and leaned on Harry like Harry was the only thing keeping him up. When Zayn would welcome the coffee with a sleepy, welcoming smile, then tug Harry in for a kiss after.

Harry shook his head, and went to take a shower.

Zayn was still asleep when he got out, so he pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and wrapped a scarf around his head to keep his hair back while it dried—no point dressing up if he wasn’t going out today. And a single glance outside showed him he really didn’t want to. Some of the sidewalks were shoveled, but even those looked like they had a sheen of ice over them, and those people who were trudging along outside looked miserable. Harry was well stocked. He wasn’t going to leave if he could help it.

He wandered over to where Zayn had dropped his wet clothes the night before. They were still a bit damp, especially the trousers, so Harry shook them out and laid them over the laundry rack, before trying Zayn’s jacket. It was still damp. God. Zayn was lucky his immune system had long since learned to keep up with his carelessness, because otherwise he’d be sick daily. If Harry had been out last night in just a peacoat, he’d have probably been bedridden for days. Not that Harry wanted Zayn to get sick or anything, and have to stay here.

Harry flicked on the kettle for tea, then stole another glance at Zayn. He probably didn’t sleep as late as he had in college, where he could sleep until three if he didn’t have to wake up, but still Harry didn’t expect him up for a while. So he grabbed his laptop, and settled on the couch. He could get some work done, at least.

By the time his tea was gone, he’d checked his email, fielded all the assorted panicking student emails, tweaked his lesson plans for the rest of the week to take the snow day into account, and rejected Niall’s request for a snowball fight in Central Park (tempting, but he did not want to deal with the trains). And Zayn was still asleep.

He could pick up his own book, maybe work on some publicity for the band, maybe just mess around on his computer. But his gaze kept on going back to Zayn’s body on the bed, his flushed cheeks and messy hair and the way his eyelashes feathered over this skin. Harry’d never really been able to resist him, not really. And if they were going to be fuckbuddies, they should have sex. It was part of the rules. Even if they’d broken them, with Zayn staying over, but that had purely been for practical reasons.

So Harry closed his computer, turned the water back on for tea later—Zayn would just have to make do without his coffee—then crossed the room to the bed, pulling down the covers. Zayn didn’t wake up when he eased him out of his ball, just let Harry arrange him how he wanted, though he made a few more noises that were more adorable than anything. Harry’d forgotten how pliant he got when he was sleepy, how he’d let Harry do anything.

Harry grinned again at the memory, then eased Zayn’s sweatpants down his hips. They hadn’t had a chance to pull on boxers last night, which Harry approved of, both on general principle and because it made things easier now. Zayn was already sort of incidentally hard, just from the morning, so Harry licked up the underside, swirling his tongue around the head, until Zayn really was hard, and Harry could swallow him down. Zayn moaned, hips pushing up, so Harry planted one hand there to hold him down, wrapped the other around the part of Zayn’s cock he could reach.

It was sort of nice, the laziness of the morning, without the urgency that so often possessed them. How Harry could take his time, taste the saltiness at Zayn’s tip before he went back down, could take the time to move his hand to Zayn’s balls, playing with them as he glanced up to see Zayn’s eyelids fluttering, see him slowly coming awake.

So Harry slid his lips back down, deep as he could go, and hollowed out his cheeks until Zayn was mumbling incoherent, rough things, and he was pushing against the hand on his hips, and finally he mumbled something about coming a second before he did, moaning Harry’s name.

Harry swallowed it down, then pulled away, wiped his mouth with his hand, and looked back up. Zayn’s eyes were open, and he looked even more of a mess already. It was a great look on him, but there was—Harry wasn’t even really hard, though he could be with a thought. He just wanted to look at Zayn like this, to have Zayn smile at him like that, like he didn’t see anything else. He’d get reciprocation later.

“There’s a way to wake up,” Zayn grinned, and pulled Harry up to kiss him. Morning breath didn’t much matter after that, Harry reasoned, and kissed him back, easing him even farther into wakefulness. Zayn’s eyes had focused when he’d drawn back, lost a bit of the sleep in them. “Coffee?”

“Tea,” Harry corrected, and rolled off of Zayn to go get it.  

“You don’t have coffee?”

Harry rolled his eyes as he poured out the tea. “Wasn’t that better than coffee?”

“Nothing’s better than coffee.” Zayn accepted the mug with grabby fingers, then pulled Harry down next to him, so their thighs were pressed close.

“Hey!”

“But that was close,” Zayn admitted, his head drooping onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry sighed, and relaxed back, sliding an arm around his waist. It took a few sips of tea, but then Zayn asked, “How early is it? Don’t we have school?”

“Now he asks,” Harry teased. Zayn made a face. “Snow day. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Snow day?” Zayn repeated. He took another sip of tea, then just breathed it in, like he could imbibe the caffeine faster like that. “That bad out?”

“You should know, you walked through it.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Zayn, you were frozen half to death.” Harry’d forgotten how scared Zayn made him sometimes, when he did that. When he forgot to take care of himself, and Harry wasn’t there to make him. He knew, academically, that Zayn had somehow managed to survive for seven years without Harry, and then for twenty before him, but still. “Remember the soup?”

“I remember what came after,” Zayn retorted, smirking. Harry smirked back, and took the mug from Zayn to steal a sip.

He could only sit there with blowjob breath for so long, though, so he ducked into the bathroom to brush his teeth again while Zayn finished his tea. When he came back out, Zayn was putting his shoes back on.

Harry froze, his hand braced against the wall. “You’re going?” His voice was pretty steady, he thought.

Zayn paused too, one shoe on, one shoe off. “Yeah?” He tilted his head. “I mean, was going to get out of your hair. You probably have things to do? Want to take advantage of the day off? Things to do, people to see, and all?”

Harry could. He could call up the band, see if they had off too and wanted to jam, could maybe Skype with Nick or Gemma or his mum, could call up half a dozen people to catch up. Could even go join Niall in Central Park, if he wanted. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to cuddle with Zayn while the snow fell outside.

And they were friends, right? Friends cuddled on snowy Thursdays. He could hang out with a friend on a snow day. It’s what snow days were for. And he wasn’t nineteen anymore. He could ask Zayn what he wanted, instead of just hoping he’d do it on his own.

“You could stay,” he suggested. “I don’t have anything to do. We could watch a movie or something. Maybe work on stuff for the musical.”

Zayn’s lips pursed for a second, and his eyes closed, like he was deep in thought. But there was just one long rise and fall of his chest, then his grin bloomed, that soft sweet thing that had always brought Harry low, had made Harry swear he’d do anything to see it again. That smile, he reminded himself, and the way it fell off his face. That was why. Just friends.

“Sure,” Zayn said, and toed off his shoe. “Warmer here anyway.”

“And there’s more food,” Harry pointed out. He just wanted…if Zayn went out he might get sick. That was the only reason why he needed him to stay. That was it, he insisted firmly to himself. Nothing else.

\---

_Phoebe: Look at them! They’re so cute._

_Ralphie: Who?_

_Phoebe: Mr. Malik and Mr. Styles_

_Ralphie: ? They’re talking._

_Phoebe: Come on, Ralphie. Don’t you have any romance in you? Look at how they’re looking at each other!_

_Ralphie: Like they’re talking?_

_Phoebe: …I pity all your future girlfriends._

\---

“Okay, Arnold, that was basically right,” Zayn told him, glancing from the script up to the boy who was chewing on his lip as intensely as Zayn ever had. “Just a few words here or there, and no one will notice.”

“You did,” Arnold pointed out, with a rather desperate sort of logic. “We should probably run it again, so I have it down before I have to, like, act it.”

Zayn couldn’t help his smile, but he closed the book instead. He could do this. Just parrot what had been told to him, in an admittedly more composed and relaxing office. “You’re not going to be half so bad as you think you are.”

“Oh, thanks,” Arnold retorted, with a hint of sarcasm. Good. Sarcasm was good. Sarcasm and pride had gotten Zayn through more than he really wanted to admit. “Now I feel better.”

“No, I mean,” Zayn shook his head, and closed the script to put it on his desk, over the pile of papers he had meant to grade over lunch before a panicking and desperate Arnold had come in. “You’re your own worst critic. No one is looking at you as much as you think they are.”

“But everyone will be looking at me.”

“Today, only your friends will. Well, and your castmates. And they’ll be too busy thinking about what they’re doing wrong to notice.”  

“But…” Arnold trailed off. His hands were tapping at his thighs anxiously, and his orange hair was a mess from him pulling on it in stress. If he was this bad just for the first time on stage, Zayn was a little worried for what would happen when there was an audience. There was a reason Zayn never had been near a stage. “What if I’m awful?”

“You aren’t.”

“But…Mr. Malik, I’m not exactly good with crowds. Or people. Or anything.” Arnold groaned, and buried his head in his hands. “What if I fuck this—I mean, what if I mess this up for everyone?”

Zayn had to smile at that, too—then his smile widened when Harry poked his head in. He tilted his head in a question, but Zayn shook his head and so Harry came in, leaned against the back wall.

“You won’t,” Zayn said, as firmly as he knew how. It wouldn’t help, of course, but it couldn’t hurt. “And anyway, everyone will mess up today.”

“But I’ll keep on messing up. I know it. I always do it. I get on stage and I open my mouth and—just—” He gave Zayn a big, tragic look. “It all gets stuck.”

“Then do a shot beforehand,” Zayn suggested, and laughed when Arnold choked. “Don’t, obviously. Because that would be illegal and I know no teenager ever drinks.” Arnold grinned, reluctantly, so Zayn echoed it, hoping to coax it out more. “But the principle’s the same. You just have to relax. Take a nap, if that helps.”

“No one else seems to need to.”

“That’s because they don’t.” Zayn shrugged. This had been the hardest lesson he’d ever had to learn, really. The earlier Arnold figured it out, the better. “Some people don’t get stressed out talking to people. But we do. And you’ll figure out ways around it. Just don’t start smoking,” he added, as an afterthought, “Or drinking. It works, but not long term.”

That got another laugh from Arnold. “Really?”

Zayn glanced around theatrically, then lowered his voice to a very audible whisper. “It got me through college. But,” he went on, because he probably shouldn’t actually be encouraging underage drinking, even if he figured Arnold one of the least likely people to start abusing alcohol. “It also meant I didn’t start really figuring out how to talk in front of people until I was out of college. This is a great opportunity for you to do it now.”

“I didn’t even want to!” Arnold moaned. “D.A. made me!”

“And do you think she’ll laugh?”

“…no.”

“Or Keisha or Carlos or any of your other friends?”

“Carlos will.”

That was not untrue. “Well, will it be mean?”

“No.”

“There you go.” Zayn reached out to pat Arnold on the shoulder. “Ease into it. By the time the show is on, you’ll be an expert.”

Arnold sighed gustily. “Sure,” he agreed, pretty half-heartedly, then glanced at his watch. “I should get lunch. Thanks, Mr. Malik.”

“No problem. And I’ll be there too, so I can mouth lines if you need it.”

 “Will you?” Now he did smile, almost a beam. “Thanks!”

“What I’m here for.” Zayn raised his hand in farewell. Harry grabbed Arnold’s arm at the door, bent his head to talk to him for a second. Good, that was good. Harry would actually comfort him, as opposed to Zayn’s awkward attempts. It wasn’t like anything could really help, Zayn knew. Not even when after years and therapy and meds the thought of going up on stage sober made Zayn feel like nails on a chalkboard. But maybe this had helped somewhat. Maybe Arnold wasn’t as bad as Zayn had been.

After a few words, Harry let him go with a quick grin that wasn’t quite his usual brilliant one, then ambled over to Zayn.

“What’s up?”

Harry held up a tupperware. “Lunch.”

“I have…”  Zayn glanced over his desk. He’d brought something. He’d made a sandwich. He thought. Maybe? “Well, I can run out and grab it.”

“You don’t have time,” Harry informed him, and set the Tupperware and a fork on the desk in front of him. “And you know you’d forget. Eat.”

When he put it that way, it was hard to argue. “Thanks.” Zayn peeled off the top to reveal what looked like a pasta salad. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “I had more than enough anyway.”

“Well, thanks.” Zayn pushed up a little to kiss him in gratitude. “I really did mean to run out and grab something. But then Arnold came in…”

“I’m sure.” Harry turned to look out the door, like he’d expected Arnold to come back or something. Zayn took a bite of the pasta. It was, as was everything Harry made, delicious. When Zayn looked up again, after a few more bites, Harry was giving him one of his squinty-eyed, concerned looks that Zayn usually only got when he forgot his gloves or something.

“What?”

“Was…” Harry ran a hand through his hair, then kept going. “Was that true? About college?”

“What do you mean?” Zayn ate some more pasta, than looked around for his water bottle. Harry handed it to him without looking away from his perusal of his knees.

“I mean…Just all that stuff you were telling Arnold. About how drinking got you through college. Was it really that bad?”

“Not entirely.” Zayn shrugged again. Harry still wasn’t looking at him, so he reached up to turn Harry’s head so he had to look. “It only felt that bad when I was in it.”

“That’s not better.” Harry jerked away, then got up off the desk to pace to the window. “Were you miserable when we were together?”

Zayn sighed, and got up too, so he could walk over and wrap an arm around Harry’s shoulder, tucking him into his side. “Not with you. But you know how awkward I was at parties.”

“You weren’t awkward.”

Zayn snorted. “I really was. I didn’t say anything to anyone.” Hadn’t been able to, not until he was five drinks in.

“I just thought that you didn’t want to be there.”

“Sometimes I didn’t.” Sometimes, it had hurt too much to go, the mere thought of it making him want to die. But he usually hadn’t gone when it was that bad, not unless Harry begged, not unless he thought too hard about Harry there with everyone wanting him. Everyone wanting to talk to him and make him laugh and smile at them, like he did at Zayn.

Of course, even when he had gone, Zayn could only stand stiff and silent next to him as everyone else laughed. It had been better to not be there, so at least sometimes he could convince himself that Harry was missing him. So that sometimes Harry would stumble back and into Zayn’s bed, murmur things about how he wanted him into his neck before passing out. Even when he didn’t, Zayn could at least pretend he was at his dorm, not out with those people who were better for him than Zayn could ever be. “See aforementioned awkward.”

“You never looked awkward.” Harry turned his head, so his lips brushed against Zayn’s jaw, and he shivered. This was probably horribly unprofessional; he should at least have closed the door. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because you wouldn’t have understood. Because you couldn’t have fixed me. Because I didn’t want to give you a reason to stop. Because I didn’t want you to know how much less I was than what you could have. Because hiding had always been easier.

“Pride, mainly,” Zayn answered easily. “And you couldn’t have changed it. I didn’t get a handle on it until grad school, really.”

“I could have helped.” Harry glanced behind them, then, apparently satisfied, turned them so that they were pressed together. “I could help now.”

“It’s not really an issue anymore.” Or it was, but he was handling it now.

“I can help,” Harry repeated, and tugged him in for a long, lingering kiss that lasted until the warning bell rang and they both jumped.

“Shit!” Harry swore, rubbing his nose where Zayn had jostled it. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Finish your lunch.”

“I have class.”

“Finish your lunch,” Harry repeated, and poked Zayn in the chest before disentangling himself and heading out. Zayn grinned at his retreating back, then sat down to finish the rest of his lunch while he glanced at the lesson plan for next period.

\---

“Thank you for coming in, Dr. Arthur,” Harry said, holding open the door to her. She sniffed, but deigned to go through it in front of him. “I’m glad you understand. I think Jack will fit much better in the band, and the solo will really spotlight him.”

“But it won’t go on his college application,” she replied, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder. “Yes, yes, I know,” she cut off Harry’s protest, because he had said all that already, and he really didn’t want to go over it again. “I’ve agreed. We’ll just have to make sure he works harder next year.”

What they needed to do was make sure Jack liked music, because Harry was pretty sure he’d rather be anywhere but in music class, given how he was always staring out the windows. But Harry’d learned within a year of working here that just saying that wouldn’t help. “He’s got plenty of time,” Harry said reassuringly instead, smiling his best ‘everything’s going to be okay’ smile. “And there are other extra-curriculars. He’s involved with the track team as well, isn’t he?”

“Yes, well. He’s always been a musician, like me. The track was his father’s idea, and we both know it’s going nowhere.” But she smiled back at him, then, as she turned, her gaze caught on Zayn, who was leaning against the wall with his head bent over a book. Her smile changed then, into something with a hint of interest. Harry couldn’t really blame her, but still. That’s wasn’t—it wasn’t okay. It was unprofessional.

But he just smiled at her again. “Whatever he enjoys, right?” Harry said, and she snorted again.

“And is good at.”

“And ideally both.” Harry held out his hand, and she shook it firmly. “Nice to see you. Do you need me to show you out?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” With a final cool smile, and another considering look at Zayn, she turned and clicked away on short, practical heels.

Harry watched her go, then heaved a sigh, and let his head droop. He hated disappointing parents like that, and it was even worse when he knew she was going to take it out on Jack. And then Jack would be mad at him and mad at the world and he would work even less on his solo and—

“Hey,” Zayn’s voice was an anchoring roughness, and his body even more so, when it wrapped around Harry with his arms around his waist. “It’s okay.”

Harry let himself slump backwards, into Zayn, and let Zayn guide him into the music room and close the door behind them. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah.” Zayn hummed gently in his ear. It was so nice just to lean on Zayn, to let him hold Harry up and just _be_. He was so good at being, at letting Harry be, like he didn’t have to be excited or charming or anything but just Harry.

Harry let himself sink into it for a while, to let Zayn hold him, to relax and let the stress stream out of him like Zayn was some sort of nerves black hole. Like all his stress about the meeting just disappeared under Zayn’s hands. Like stress didn’t matter around him.

Finally, “Why are you here?” Harry asked. He tipped his head back, so it could rest against Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn shrugged. It jostled Harry a little, but it was worth it. “You were worried about this. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I told you about it?”

“You must have.” Zayn shrugged again, like it was no big deal. And it wasn’t, Harry guessed, it was just a friend checking up on another friend because of a bad day at work, but it felt like more. It felt…sweet, in a way that had always ambushed Harry. How he might forget their anniversary, or Valentine’s Day, or even a date, but then sometimes he would remember exactly what Harry needed when he needed him to.  “It go okay?”

“Yeah. She wasn’t mad at me. But you know she’s going to yell at Jack when she gets home.”

“Nothing you can do, babe.”

“I know.” Harry sighed. “I just hate giving bad news.”

“Good thing you’re not a doctor then, yeah?” Harry giggled, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Zayn smile back at him. He had that look in his eyes, like he got sometimes whenever Harry laughed, like he was so proud he had made that happen, and Harry never got it because it wasn’t hard to make him laugh, and especially not for Zayn. But Harry couldn’t help it, with the look and Zayn’s arms around him and how safe Zayn made him feel, had always made him feel. He pressed a kiss to Zayn’s jaw.

Zayn’s smile broadened, and Harry kissed at his jaw again, then turned in Zayn’s arms so he could kiss him properly, long and slow, a thank you and a you’re the best and a please. Zayn’s arms tightened around his waist, pulling him closer, and Harry grabbed at his hair to pull him in, until they were both breathless and Zayn broke away to start kissing at down his neck, his teeth scraping over the skin so Harry shivered.

“We’ve got rehearsal in fifteen minutes,” Harry managed to get out.

“I can work with fifteen minutes.” Zayn pushed Harry back, then more, until Harry’s knees hit the piano bench and he folded onto it. Zayn grinned at him, then dropped to his knees, his hands running down Harry’s thighs as he did.

Harry spared half a though for the door, wondering if it had locked—but that was all the thought he had when Zayn was opening up his slacks and pulling his boxers down, his grin giving way to that focused look he got when he was really interested in something. Harry would sell his soul to get that look, sometimes, but right now all he could do was stare and gape as Zayn wrapped a hand around him, coaxing him into full hardness. “C’mon, babe,” he murmured, his voice rough like he was already wrecked, “C’mon, want to make you feel good.”

“Not going to be a problem,” Harry choked out, and Zayn shot him a quick, delighted grin before he swallowed Harry down so fast Harry had to bite into his hand so he didn’t moan loud enough the whole school could hear. Zayn was being careful, he knew, probably keeping in mind how he would have to talk at rehearsal soon, but there was still nothing better than Zayn’s lips wrapped around him, then the wet heat of him like this, then the way Zayn looked when he was only looking at Harry.

He came almost embarrassingly quickly, except for how he wasn’t embarrassed at all because that had always been what Zayn did to him, his teeth digging into his hand and the other one clutching at the edge of the piano bench. Zayn coaxed him through it with his hand over Harry’s cock, then licked his lips to make sure none was on his face. Harry sometimes wondered if he knew how obscenely hot he was, when he did shit like that without even meaning to make it a tease. But Harry clearly had no choice but to kiss pull him up onto the bench next to him and kiss his taste from his mouth.

Zayn was smiling softly when he pulled away. “Feeling better?” he asked, nudging his nose against Harry’s cheek. Harry wrapped an arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t cuddling if it was on a bench. It wasn’t like they were in bed again. It was just…friendly. Friends being friendly.

“Yeah.” Harry couldn’t help but smile when Zayn pressed his lips to Harry’s cheeks, then his smile deepened when Zayn poked at his dimple. “Oh, shit, do you—”

“It’s fine. Wanted to make you feel good.”

“You always make me feel good.”

Zayn chuckled. “Still so good at flattery.”

“It’s not flattery! It never was.”

“’course it was.” Zayn shook his head, but his hand was resting on Harry’s thigh, and Harry covered it with his own instinctively. “I was irritating as hell in college. Couldn’t put two sentences together.”

“You were brilliant.” So brilliant, so much smarter than Harry no matter what he did, always going all sorts of places Harry couldn’t find him. “You still are, Master Malik.”

Zayn ducked his head, like he always did when Harry complimented him. “That’s not how a masters degree works, Haz. And you’re the brilliant one.”

“I’m not!”

“We’re not starting this,” Zayn informed him, and stuck out his tongue. Which meant Harry probably needed to suck on that tongue, because it was all there. It was only when they had to breathe again that rational thought crept in, and he thought to look at his watch.

“Shit! Zayn. We’ve got rehearsal, like, now.” He leapt to his feet, and tugged Zayn up after him with one hand while he tried to readjust his pants with the other. “We can’t both be late, Louis will know!”

“I think Louis already does know,” Zayn pointed out, but he submitted to being dragged out of the room without question. Harry didn’t even think about how normal this felt, Zayn at his heels as they rushed somewhere, late because they’d been fooling around. Or how easy it would have been to reach down and intertwine their fingers, to feel Zayn anchored to him there.

\---

_Arnold: She’s smirking again, Carlos_

_Carlos: I know, isn’t it hot?_

_Arnold: No, it’s scary. She looks like that when she has bad ideas. What’s her bad idea this time?_

_Carlos: Hopefully it involves me and whipped cream._

_Arnold: Carlos!_

_Carlos: Just saying, Arnold :p_

_Arnold: Well keep your just saying out of my unfortunately visual imagination. Gross._

_Carlos: My fortunately visual imagination disagrees._

_Arnold: Ugh. Where’s brain bleach when you need it?_

_\---_

_Dorothy: Plan M is a go!_

_Arnold: Did we have to name the plan?_

_Tim: How many plans do you have, D.A.?_

_Dorothy: Shut up. Phoebe, you’re on Mr. Malik, Keish, get Mr. Tomlinson. I’m going to ask Mr. Styles. Tim will get Mr. Horan, and Ralphie will get Coach Payne. We’ll get our answers._

_Phoebe: I wish I was on Mr Malik._

_Dorothy: Phoebe! That is counterproductive to Plan M!_

_Keisha: Not necessarily. Mr. Styles could be there too._

_Phoebe: Mmmm, yes please. Thank you for adding to my fantasies._

_Dorothy: Stop getting distracted. We need all hands on deck for this one._

_Keisha: Spoilsport._

_Dorothy: Hey, I just want my teachers to be happy. If you’d rather be selfish…_

_Wanda: You’re extremely passive aggressive, has anyone ever told you that?_

_Dorothy: Yes._

_\---_

“You’ve got a weird face on.” Niall nudged Zayn with his hip, then leaned against the bar next to him. Very close to him, because the bar was packed, partly because it was a Friday night, but the band probably had something to do with it, given that a good half the bar was riveted towards the stage.

“It’s my normal face,” Zayn retorted with barely a glance away from the stage. He wasn’t looking at the alcohol behind the bar, or thinking about all the people jostling around him. He could do this. He knew how to do this. He’d thought about it.

“Okay.” Niall shrugged, and hailed the bartender with little more than a cheerful grin. “Then your normal face is weird.”

Zayn snorted out a laugh. “Nah, it’s just…déjà vu. Feels like college.”

“Because you’re going to blow him after?”

“That too.” But it wasn’t that, not really. It was just the crowded bar, the way everyone was looking at Harry like he was the center of their universe, like it wasn’t stage lights shining on him but him giving off the lights. The way Zayn stood on the edge with a beer in his hands and watched everyone fall in love with Harry.

It wasn’t the same though, thank God. Zayn wasn’t on the edge, not really. He was only a beer in, not three shots in just so he could stand to be there. He didn’t have to look away, to fume and twitch and wonder which one of the people around him wanted the magnetic boy on stage, which of them were funnier and wittier and didn’t need alcohol just to do the things Harry liked. Now, he could just look, could just watch Harry killing it on stage. Maybe he would blow him after, or let Harry get his energy out on Zayn in some other way. Maybe Harry would find someone else. The thought didn’t twist him up in knots like it used to. Because they weren’t together, and if Harry wanted Zayn he wanted him, and if he didn’t he didn’t, and Zayn didn’t have to work so hard for that to change.

“Earth to Zayn!” A hand waved in front of his eyes, cutting off his view of Harry. Zayn jumped, nearly spilled his beer, then turned to scowl at Niall. Well, he tried to scowl. He’d never quite mastered the art of scowling at Niall.

“What?”

“Didn’t want you having a sex dream right here.”

Zayn snorted. “Wasn’t a sex dream.”

“Wouldn’t know, seems like that’s all you and Haz think about now.”

“Jealous?” Zayn smirked. It wasn’t even hard to say.

“Not nearly. Too much cock for me.” Niall turned slightly, so he could grin his lopsided, wicked grin at a woman at the other end of the bar. She blushed. Sometimes, Zayn wished he could take lessons from Niall. In sheer confidence if nothing else. “But you two give off pheromones or something. Makes me horny.”

“Good to know.”

Niall took his Guinness from the bartender, but he had made eye contact with the girl, whose blush had changed into a flirty smile. “I’ll be there in a sec,” he told Zayn, and headed over towards the girl.

Zayn rolled his eyes, but he waited patiently, he thought, for the bartender to pour his own beer. Even if he had apparently gotten distracted flirting with a guy halfway down the table.

“This stool taken?”

Zayn shook his head at the voice. It was obviously empty. He didn’t see why people had to ask him things like this.

“Shame, that. Good-looking guy like you, left all alone here.” Shit. The woman was actually talking to him. He’d have to look at her.

There were two of them, and Zayn’s hand tightened over the edge of the bar at the sight of the two women, who were both looking at him hard, like they wanted something from him. The one who had spoken, in a low-cut red halter that showed off her tits—but the other woman was clearly her girlfriend with the arm around her and he shouldn’t look even though that was a come on wasn’t it?—leaned forward, with a flirty smile. “Isn’t it a pity, Amy?”

“Pity,” the other woman agreed. Her voice was dark and sultry to match her heavy-lidded eyes, and Zayn needed her to stop looking at him like that, like he was supposed to know what to say next. He didn’t—what was he supposed to do here? “We should probably keep him company.”

“What do you say?” the red-shirted one asked. “Buy you a drink?” Now they would need an answer, he had to say something. He probably looked like such an idiot standing here, not saying anything, they must think he was so stupid and—

Breath in, breath out. There was nothing he could say here that would make him comfortable, nothing to do. Breath in, breath out. He needed to remove himself from the situation. Breath in, breath out. He would have an out as soon as the bartender got him his drink.

“Sorry, I—” Thank God, the bartender chose that moment to finally bring him his beer, which he took with a probably too-grateful smile. He slapped a ten on the bar, which was probably too much tip but who cared, and gave the women a shrug before he left.

He took one more deep breath as he sat back down at their booth, , taking his chair at the end of the table. He was okay. He was with the boys, who he knew, who wouldn’t think he was stupid or awkward.

“No Niall?” Liam asked, like Zayn could have guessed. Just knowing that made it easier. That, and Harry’s voice on stage.

“Busy.”

“That lad.” Louis shook his head, mock-despairing. “When will he find a nice girl and settle down?”

“When pigs fly?” Zayn suggested.

“And what about you, sir?” Louis demanded, banging his pint glass on the table. “I saw you talking to those two women. Did you just turn down a threesome?”

“Um—” He had, he guessed, but he hadn’t thought about it like that, had just needed to get away from those women and their expectations he didn’t understand and his anxiety creeping in at the corners and ruining a good night, like it always had. “I guess? I mean, I’m here with you guys. To see Harry.”

“We wouldn’t be offended if you went with them,” Louis retorted. “I’d cheer you on your way.”

“Harry might have minded,” Liam retorted thoughtfully. He wasn’t drunk enough to be boisterous and crude yet, but that might come later. “You having sex with someone who wasn’t him. Two someones, that is.”

“We’re not like that,” Zayn muttered, and shifted his chair to conclusively cut off that conversation and watch Harry sing.

The band was good, as Zayn always thought it sounded, but to notice them he would have had to look away from Harry. The good thing about going to Harry’s gigs, as opposed to parties, had always been that he didn’t have to talk to people, didn’t have to mingle or expend energy when Harry was playing, could just sit and listen and absorb the way Harry’s voice rolled over him, rich and deep and compelling. Apparently it was acceptable to not talk to anyone when your boyfriend was singing, so coming to a gig had been two birds with one stone.

Zayn just sat and listened through their set, watched Harry burn so bright up on stage he thought his eyes might bleed from looking. But he couldn’t look away. He’d never been able to look away from Harry.

The set ended on thunderous applause and cat calls (only a few provided by Louis.) Harry was beaming when he tripped off stage, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was nineteen again. Zayn turned back to the table once he was gone—he would be a while, talking to the small fanbase they had built up, chatting with friends, flirting with all the men and women drawn in by the magnetism he didn’t even seem to realize he had, that made people just want to be around him. He’d come to their table eventually, Zayn knew—or he wouldn’t. Zayn could live with either.

But come he did, tumbling out of the crowd with a grin wide enough to take over his face. “Hey!” he grinned. The table was nearly full; the five of them trying to fit into a small booth, so Zayn scooted over on his chair so Harry could share it. He settled easily against Zayn; Zayn wrapped an arm around his waist to make sure he didn’t fall. “How was it?”

“Crazy!” Niall announced, drinking down the last of his beer.

“You were amazing,” Liam agreed.

“Acceptable,” Louis added. Harry stuck his tongue out, then turned to Zayn. His arm slid across his back, under the edge of Harry’s mostly unbuttoned shirt, against the warm skin of his back.

“What’d you think?”

“You’re always brilliant,” Zayn informed him, because it was true. Brilliant like a star, he’d always felt. He wasn’t really, Zayn knew. He was bratty and emotional and fretted and was so hard on himself Zayn ached for him, sometimes. But he was still brilliant, and always had been.

Harry ducked his head, grinning. “Glad you could come,” he muttered. Zayn squeezed his waist.  Obviously he was going to come. He could handle it, now. Harry gave him another quick smile, something other than stage energy in it, then bounced to his feet. “I want a drink! Zayn, you’re out, want me to get you another one?”

He was out, Zayn noticed. He didn’t feel the need for another one, didn’t feel like if he didn’t drink he would shake out of his skin. But Harry was blazing so bright, and Zayn had never been able to look away when he was like this. He had used to try, to make the eventual hurt less—but that hadn’t worked. So, “I’ll come with you,” he said, and pushed to his feet too.

Harry’s astonished smile lit up his face. It wasn’t that unusual, Zayn thought, a bit put out. He did know how to get his own drinks. “Really?”

“If you don’t want—”

“No!” Harry grabbed his wrist, like that would stop him from sitting back down. Louis snorted, very loudly. “No, I want, if you want.” He tugged, and Zayn didn’t have a choice but to follow him this time. It was slow going through the crowd, mainly because Harry had to stop every three feet to talk to someone else, but Zayn remembered this. Remembered how it felt to stand next to Harry while everyone circled and stared, like they could absorb some of his energy by being near. You couldn’t, Zayn wanted to tell them, but he was still trying even now, wrapping an arm around Harry whenever they were close enough. He kept it loose, though, because he remembered that too, when he had held on too tight. He didn’t have a right to hold on tight, this time. It made it better, probably. They could coexist with the light hand Harry had around his wrist, with Zayn’s hand resting on his hip without trying to dig into the skin there, to mark him up so everyone knew he was Zayn’s. He’d only be Zayn’s if he wanted to, tonight, and that was fine. Totally, absolutely fine.

Finally they made it to the bar, and Harry yelled his order to the bartender before he pushed his way into the circle of his band. Zayn would have held back, but Harry pulled him in with him. Breath in, breath out. He could always hide behind Harry. That had used to work well enough.

“Haz.” James, a burly man with dreads down to his shoulders, who Zayn thought was an engineer during the day, grinned at him. “Great show tonight, bro.”

“Wasn’t it?” Harry tipped his head back and laughed, his hair shaking around his shoulders. “That riff at the end of _My Love_ , man, that was killer!”

“It was,” James agreed, toasting himself.

“Not that great.” The woman who contradicted him was small and almost birdlike, both in her features and in the piercing voice she used to stab at James. “Totally a rip off.”

“Jules, it was—”

“You all know Zayn?” Harry interrupted them. Zayn held back a grin. Of course Harry needed to distract from any sort of conflict. If only he could have done that without drawing attention unexpectedly to Zayn. “My—”

“’Course.” James nodded to him. “Hey, man.”

“How could we forget him?” Jules asked, turning laughing eyes on Zayn. “Never forget a face like that.”

“It’s a good face,” Harry agreed. Even though they had gotten to their goal, he still hadn’t let go of Zayn’s wrist. “Ryan, I don’t know if you’ve met, he—”

“I’ve seen him around.” Their bassist nodded at Zayn too. He was cool and dark, with sharp features and dark hair and almost black eyes. The first time Zayn had seen him, he had thought of Shakespeare’s dark lady, or maybe even Heathcliff. Someone dark and dangerous and magnetic with it, even if it was a very different sort of magnetism than Harry gave off. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.” Zayn started to shuffle his beer to his other hand to shake, but Ryan didn’t seem like he was going to reciprocate, so Zayn didn’t. He didn’t want his hand just hanging out there, rejected. But he knew them, knew this, knew Harry holding his wrist and he was sober and he wasn’t twenty, and he could talk to people he liked.

“So, Zayn.” Jules leaned in, intent. “Did you like our set?”

“It was great, as always.” He smiled, nudged Harry teasingly with his hip. “Had to listen past this one’s screeching to focus on the drums, though.”

“Heyyy,” Harry whined. He twisted so their sides were pressed tight together, his other hand skating from Zayn’s wrist to settle against his thigh. “You said I was brilliant, before.”

“Which one were you lying about?” Ryan put in, sharply.

“You’ll never know, will you,” Zayn teased back.

“You’re a cruel man, Zayn,” Jules laughed, putting a hand on his arm. “You should come to some rehearsals. See us really jam.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Zayn shook his head. “Harry’s the musical one, not me.”

“Oh, I bet you could find something to appreciate.” Harry was letting go, stepping away; Zayn tilted his head at him in a question but Harry didn’t respond, turning instead to Ryan and James. They probably had band things to discuss. “And I could show you my book collection.”

“Books?” Zayn knew he was a stereotype, but his ears perked up. Books were solid ground. “What do you read?”

She grinned at that, ran a hand through his dirty blonde bob. “Oh, this and that. I’m working on my PhD at NYU, actually. When I’m not shredding it here.”

“Isn’t shredding a guitar?”

She laughed again, squeezing the hand on his arm. “See, you do know things.”

“Only what I’ve picked up from Haz.”

“Right, Harry.” She let go, and her eyes narrowed. “He talks about you a lot.”

“Must be pretty boring conversations.”

“Not to hear him tell it. You sure are close.”

Zayn shrugged. “We’re friends and co-workers, it’ll happen.” He figured Harry might not want his sexual habits bantered about, so he left the part about occasional, casual fucking out. Although it wasn’t that occasional, come to think about it. They’d hooked up in some way or another every day for the last few weeks. “So, what’s your PhD in?”

She gave me another sidelong look, then ran another hand through her hair and started to explain.

It wasn’t too painful, talking to her. She was smart and her research into _Madame Bovary_ was interesting and incisive, and Zayn hadn’t talked about literature like this in ages it felt like, not since the last time he had seen his mates from grad school. He almost jumped when there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Sorry.” Harry gave a sheepish shrug. “But I’m going back to the lads, just wanted to let you know.”

“Oh, I’ll come.” He might have liked the band, but he didn’t want to be alone with them. He turned back to Jules. “But we need to talk more about this, yeah? I’ll email you that article.”

“Definitely!” She gave him that sidelong look again, then sighed. “Harry, why must you ruin all my fun?” she asked, before she gave Zayn another wicked grin and sauntered over to slide onto the bar stool next to James.

Harry didn’t move, for a second. “You could stay.”

“Why would I want to stay?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Jules?”

“What about her?”

“You could—” he gave a laugh that wasn’t at all his usual merry chuckle. “Wow, right. She was totally trying to pick you up.”

“We were talking,” Zayn objected.

“You might have been talking. She was flirting.” Harry’s hand tightened on his shoulder for a second, then loosened. “You could go—like, talk to her more.” He winked ostentatiously. “You know, _talk_.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, and slid a hand onto Harry’s hips. Now that he knew she was flirting, it would just get…complicated. Difficult. He would get awkward and stuttery and it would only be worse because he hadn’t picked up on it at first and she must have noticed, and it didn’t matter anyway, because she was hot but she wasn’t Harry. “But I could talk to you,” he murmured, letting his voice go low.

“I—you could,” Harry agreed. “But I can’t—like, are you sure? You were enjoying your conversation. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

It didn’t used to be this hard to get Harry to have sex with him. Zayn leaned forward, slid his hands into Harry’s belt loops to bring him closer. “I’ll enjoy this conversation more.”

“Yeah?” Harry was really smiling now, dimples in both his cheeks, and this close Zayn could almost feel him vibrating, the stage adrenaline still not worn off. “I should warn you, I’m not very articulate.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got better things for you to do with your mouth,” Zayn retorted, and kissed him, quick and hard. Harry laughed again, then slid his hands behind Zayn’s neck and tugged him in again, for longer this time, even harder, like Harry was trying to devour him whole.

A wolf whistle interrupted them. Zayn jumped, hid his face in Harry’s neck, but then he rolled his eyes as Harry grinned and bowed, his hands still locked around Zayn. “Maybe not here,” he giggled.

Zayn couldn’t help but echo the giggle. Harry’d always made it easier, having people watching him. “You could take me home,” he suggested. He leaned in close again, so Harry curved his body into him to hear his whisper. “See if you can get that adrenaline out fucking me.”

Harry choked, and his grin might have been all sensuality but there was something vulnerable in his eyes when he looked down at Zayn, something almost little-boy lost. “I could?”

Zayn let go of Harry’s belt loop to push a curl out of his face. “’course. I know how you get after shows.” He smirked, because there had been nothing like Harry after a show, almost high with the adrenaline, and how he had devoured Zayn afterwards, in club bathrooms and their dorm rooms and everywhere in between, sometimes literally when he had pushed Zayn into buildings to grind slowly against him as Zayn gave as good as he got, gave everything to the boy he had watched shine that night. Although… “I mean, if you don’t want to find anyone else.” He really hoped Harry didn’t want to find anyone else.

“No!” Harry swayed a little, more like he was dancing than he was drunk. “No, come on, mine is closer.”

“Let’s go.” Zayn had taken a step towards the door before Harry’s hand on his wrist stopped him. “What?”

“You need to go get your jacket,” Harry informed him. “And go tell the lads we’re leaving while you’re there. I’ll get my stuff and let the band know I’m out.”

“Right.” Zayn gave him another quick kiss, then pushed his way through the crowd back to the booth. Niall wasn’t there, probably chatting someone up, but Louis and Liam only gave him a little grief when he told them they were leaving, and only a little more when Liam had to call him back to grab his jacket. Zayn pulled it on and buttoned up the leather. Harry would be with the band, at the bar. 

Harry was there. Jules and James were nowhere to be found, but Harry and Ryan were still talking. Ryan’s gaze was hot on Harry, a heavy look that even Zayn couldn’t miss—though the one thing he’d always noticed was how people looked at Harry. The flash of pain in his gut was kneejerk, the remnants of a year of wondering—but Zayn swallowed it back. He wasn’t twenty anymore, and Harry could talk to people who wanted him without automatically choosing them over Zayn. And if he did, it was okay.

So he waited patiently until Harry peeled away from Ryan with a broad smile and wave, then bounded over to Zayn.

“Ready?” Zayn asked, opening the door for him.

Harry’s voice was rough when he replied, his look burning into Zayn. “Always.”


	5. Chapter 4

Harry was quiet for the seven minute wait for the 2 train, and even on the ride, hanging off of one of the poles over where Zayn sat, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. But he didn’t need to talk, when Zayn could feel his stare, when his foot kept tapping and his gaze kept skating all over Zayn and his gloved fingers drummed against the cool metal of the pole. Zayn slid his hand into Harry’s when they left Grand Army Plaza, because his hand was cold because he had forgotten his gloves, and because he wanted to feel Harry squeeze his fingers around it, give him that quick flash of a smile beneath his beanie.

“You cold?” Harry asked, as they got to the brownstone and Harry let go of his hand to unlock the door. His voice was tight, somehow, almost choked. Like he was holding himself back. Given that he had yet to maul Zayn in any way, Zayn was pretty sure he was. He wasn’t a fan.

“I don’t want any soup.”  

Harry laughed, and ushered Zayn inside. Zayn pressed against the side to let Harry pass him on the stairs so he could open the door. “No, no soup,” Harry agreed. “But you should start remembering your gloves.”

“Want me in more clothes?”

“I want you not dying of frostbite,” Harry shot back, opening his door. “And take your boots off here, I don’t want snow everywhere.”

“I know.” Zayn snorted, and kicked the snow off his boots in the hallway before he came in and shut the door behind him. He took them off, then pulled his beanie off too, stuffed it in his pocket.

When he looked up, Harry was staring. “What?”

“I just…I forget, sometimes. What you look like out of school.”

“You see me out of school plenty.” Zayn paced forward on his socked feet, so he was pressed against Harry again, and could slide his hands from his shoulders to his the lapel of his coat, could ease it off his shoulders. “You look at me out of school, plenty.”

“Yeah, but not…” Harry shook his head. “You just look really hot, okay?”

Zayn grinned. Harry was vibrating under his hands, as he dropped his jacket onto the floor. He was holding himself back, for some reason, and Zayn did not approve. He needed Harry, now. Harry and how their bodies knew how to move together, and all that brilliance all for him. “Yeah? Even though I’m not twenty?”

“You’ll look hot when you’re ninety,” Harry retorted. His hands were on Zayn’s hips now, but only loosely. It had never used to be like this, when after a show Harry would jump on him, bite marks into his skin and beg to be marked up in return, when they fucked hard and fast and hot. They weren’t twenty anymore, but still, Zayn could feel Harry’s heart beating faster, could see the restless energy in his limbs, in how all of his muscles were tight. “But—”

Zayn cut him off with a kiss, pushing into him as hard as he could. Harry didn’t seem to object, just pulling him closer and giving as good as he got, until Zayn was nipping at his lip and Harry’s mouth fell open. “C’mon,” Zayn urged, pulling away to tug Harry backwards towards the bed. “Want you to fuck me.”

Harry laughed, and let himself be pulled. “Thought I was the eager one, after shows.”

Zayn stripped off his own shirt before he fell back onto the bed, landing there well before Harry did. He scooted back, arranged himself in the way he knew looked best on him, his hands behind his head with one leg bent at the knee. “You’re moving too slow.”

“Never complained before.”

“You never moved this slowly before.” Zayn smirked, slow and knowing, the look that had always been able to make Harry come to him across a crowded room, and unbuttoned his jeans far enough that he could get a hand inside. “Could get started without you.”

Harry stood at the edge of the bed. He still looked like he was holding back, somehow, his hands clenched at his thighs. “I…are you sure, Zayn?”

Zayn huffed out a breath. This wasn’t like Harry, this hesitance. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, Haz.”

“I should—”

“Harry.” Zayn tried to use his best teacher voice, but it was probably a little worse off by the hand he had on his cock, by the images that kept on playing in his head of Harry pounding into him. “Either fuck me, or I’ll just get myself off without you.”

Something seemed to break, in Harry. His fists unclenched and he smirked back, stripping off his own shirt, then his pants. God, Zayn never got tired of looking at him, that wide chest and long legs and his cock already taking interest. He’d like to touch even more, though, but he waited as Harry climbed onto the bed, jerking himself off lazily as Harry crawled on top of him. “Maybe you should,” he rumbled into Zayn’s ear, that low, low growl that had always gone straight to Zayn’s cock. “You’ve been watching me all night, maybe I should watch you now.”

“Think I had the better view.” Zayn shoved his jeans down to his thighs as well as he could with Harry pressed close on top of him, so he could really get a hand on himself.

“Doubt that. Fuck, do you even know how you look?” Harry bit at his ear, right at the earring he had put in for tonight. “Not that you don’t look good at school, but you were the hottest person in that bar, you know that?” He bit again, and Zayn moaned and thrust into his hand. He could feel Harry’s satisfied smile as much as see it, then Harry’s hand was wrapping itself around his on his cock. “You with your earrings and your tattoos and your jacket. Fuck, I’d forgotten what it was like to play for you when you look like that. When you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Zayn arched into Harry’s touch, as Harry left his ear to lick at his neck.

“Like you wanted me to fuck you right there.” Harry bit into his neck hard enough Zayn was almost afraid he’d draw blood, and Zayn moaned again. His hand flailed a little until he found Harry’s cock, hard against Zayn’s stomach.

“Did,” Zayn panted, trying to match Harry’s rhythm, “Fuck, Harry, yeah, I did, always do—”

“Just let me pull you up on stage, in front of everyone.” Harry cut himself off with a groan buried in Zayn’s neck, as Zayn’s hand tightened with the image. “Like you wanted me to.”

“I did,” Zayn panted. Harry gave his neck a final bite and was moving down, onto his chest. “Would have let you, would let you—”

“Yeah?” The sudden coolness of Harry’s tongue around his nipple made Zayn groan and arch into it, and Harry laughed. “God, I’ve always wanted you on stage with me.”

It made something twist inside Zayn, something that wasn’t the desperate heat, because Harry had used to say that before, had tried and tried and tried, and Zayn had always been too scared. So he reached down and pulled Harry up by the hair, to kiss him as hard as he could, because he could give him this, at least, if not the other thing.

There wasn’t any hesitance in Harry this time, just lips and tongue and teeth until they ran out of breath. “Need you to fuck me now,” Zayn panted into Harry’s mouth, and Harry moaned and sat back.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and scrambled to grab lube and a condom. “Roll over?”

Zayn didn’t much care how they did it, as long as they did; he rolled over onto his stomach, let Harry tug his jeans off the rest of the way. His dick was rubbing against the sheets, a steady friction that made him move faster, until Harry’s hand pressed into the small of his back. “Not without me,” he muttered.

Harry opened him up quickly, efficiently, like they hadn’t stopped doing this for seven years, until Zayn was writhing on his fingers. And when he finally pushed in, his hands tight on Zayn’s hips, it was fast too, just on this edge of pain, but then they were moving and Harry’s lips were hot on Zayn’s neck as he thrust into him, fast and rough and god Zayn hadn’t remembered how good this was, hot and fast and Harry burning in him. 

Harry came first, his teeth digging into Zayn’s shoulder as he rode out the last of it. Zayn gave him a moment to come back to himself, twitching against the bed, before he shoved. “Babe—”

“Yeah.” Harry pulled out, flopped next to him. Zayn rolled over and just looked, at the messy hair, the long stretch of limbs, the languorous, half-lidded eyes gazing enraptured at Zayn—and it only took a few tugs before he was coming too, mouthing out nonsense, his whole mind filled with _Harry Harry Harry_.

\---

“I still don’t see why we have to have these early meetings.” Louis yawned into the paper cup full of the staff room coffee.

“Do you have to say that every month?” Liam asked. He looked chipper, but he had always been a morning person. Harry didn’t mind the morning meetings, personally, but he liked to get up early. Liked to start his day with the sun.

“Yes. Because every month it’s torture, and I could have slept in an extra five minutes if I had known Cowell was going to be late.” Louis groaned again, and leaned back in his chair. “Think he’d notice if I went to sleep?”

“Probably.” Niall patted Louis’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Thought so.” Louis glanced around the room, at the teachers milling about. “Chances Zayn’s going to be here?”

“Slim,” Liam laughed. “Bet he’s not awake yet. Unless he was with you,” he added.

Harry shook his head. They’d both been busy Sunday. “No. But I texted him, so he’s probably awake.” He hadn’t gotten a response, of course, but Harry was used to that. He knew better than to expect anything else.

“Yeah—speak of the devil.” Niall raised his hand to wave at Zayn, so Zayn’s still tired gaze fell on them, and he made his way over. He clearly had only woken up at Harry’s text, because his hair was loose today, his sweater a little askew.

“Sleep well, Zaynie?” Louis teased. Zayn made a face at him, and took the coffee Harry handed him. “Hey! Why’d you get him coffee?”

“Because he needs it,” Harry retorted. Zayn grunted his agreement. “Just wake up?”

“Yeah.” Zayn took a long swig of coffee, then settled into the chair next to Harry, tipping over so he could lean on Harry’s shoulder. “Mondays are the worst.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No one disagreed with you,” Liam pointed out, and Louis snorted.

“You disagreed with me in spirit,” he retorted, and Liam was sputtering his protests when Simon finally came in and started the meeting.

Fifteen minutes later, Simon was finishing up his discussion of the upcoming board meeting, and Harry pulled his attention back from how good Zayn’s hair smelled, and how warm he was against Harry’s side. “That’s about all,” Simon announced, looking down at his notes. “Get out of here, all of you.”

“Don’t you love how much he loves us?” Louis muttered as there was the usual clamor of people getting up, and Niall snorted out laughter.

“And—” Simon’s voice cut through the chatter. Louis froze. Simon was probably the only person Harry had ever seen who could cow Louis. “Malik. Dress code.”

Zayn grunted out something that Simon must have taken for assent, because he nodded and turned to Paul to discuss what sounded like new regulations for detentions. Zayn just sighed, and stayed leaning against Harry.

“So how’re the kids coming, Lou?” Liam asked, as he stood up. It wasn’t fair, Harry thought sometimes—a lot, really. No one cared when Liam wore short sleeves. “Gonna wow us?”

“Obviously,” Louis shot back. “But I’ve been meaning to talk to you—how do you feel about doing some choreo?”

“I…” Liam ducked his head bashfully. It was always pretty amazing how he managed to look bashful while also like he could kick your ass with one hand behind his back. Like Zayn, except Zayn wasn’t the same sort of self-deprecating. He was just Zayn. “I mean, shouldn’t you do it?”

“Yeah, but you’re better.” Louis slapped him on the arm. “You up for it? I’ll get you all involved somehow.”

“That mean you planning on pyrotechnics?” Zayn asked. The room was mostly empty by now, and a look at the clock told Harry they needed to get to their first period classes soon, so he stood up, then turned back to take the wrists Zayn offered to pull him up to standing too.

“Thanks.” Zayn smiled, and Harry couldn’t help smiling back. He tugged on Zayn’s sweater to settle it so the wings didn’t peek out anymore—which was a real shame, because if Harry loved school-Zayn, all professorial modest and buttoned up and approachable, and he loved out-Zayn like he had been Saturday, all leather and tattoos and earrings and an aloof edge so sharp people shied away rather than cut themselves on it, there was something about the in-the-middle Zayn that made Harry want to taste.

But rules were rules, and so Harry straightened out his sweater and got a grin in return. “Thanks again,” Zayn said, kissing Harry quickly on the cheek. “I—”

“I don’t think that’s all Simon meant.” Liam said it sheepishly, but with the sort of firmness that made everyone listen.

“What?”

“Harry’s a vampire,” Niall explained, and Zayn’s eyes narrowed in confusion before comprehension dawned. Harry had been trying very hard not to look—not to wonder—but it was impossible not to now. Not to glance at the dark marks on Zayn’s neck, unmistakably bruises—and unmistakably from him, too, he knew, a blush rising in his cheeks.

“Oh, right, meant to wear a turtleneck,” Zayn said, biting at his lip. Harry couldn’t stop looking, now he saw it. God, if he’d forgotten what it was like to come off stage and know Zayn was there, if he’d forgotten the heady feeling of knowing Zayn was focusing on him just him only him for a whole show—then he’d really forgotten this. Those marks like proof of what had happened, like tangible proof that Zayn had wanted him as much as he had wanted Zayn. That Zayn had been begging for him, this time. “Is it that noticeable?”

“Pretty much.” Liam studied him. “I can ask Liza if she has cover up?”

“Won’t be in Zayn’s shade,” Louis countered, and then, as Niall’s raised eyebrows, “Five sisters, bro. I know things.”

“It’ll be fine, no one will—”

“Here.” Harry cut him off, and reached behind his head to untie his scarf. He didn’t…Zayn in trouble because of him made his stomach flip. “You can wear this.”

Zayn gave the very nice flowered scarf a skeptical look. “It’s pastel.”

“You can wear pastels.”

“It’ll clash.”

“C’mon, Zayn, you can pull off everything,” Harry weaseled. “Just put it on.”

“But—”

“Zayn,” Louis snapped, clearly sick of this discussion. “Put it on so I can stop thinking about you and Harry’s sex life.”

Zayn sighed and took the scarf from Harry, folding it in half to tie like a bandana. Harry watched the bruises disappear. It wasn’t exactly better, having Harry’s scarf around his neck. Harry had always loved Zayn in his clothes, in Harry’s big sweaters that he would so often be wearing when Harry came home from parties he had refused to go to, but that had been about claiming and need and things that Harry wasn’t thinking about now. Couldn’t think about now.

“Better?” Zayn asked, knotting the scarf. It looked good on him, stressed the long line of his throat, of course. Harry hadn’t been kidding when he said Zayn could pull off anything.

“Much.”

Zayn grinned, and the coffee had clearly kicked in because there was mischief in his gaze. “Then I guess you don’t want to see the bruises on my hips, either?”

“Zayn!” Harry choked out. Niall was almost curled up into himself laughing, and Louis had his most pretend offended look on he knew, and Liam had the pressed-together lips that meant he was trying not to grin. Then, “Really?”

Zayn turned at that, so he was more or less pressed against Harry, and threaded the hand not holding coffee through Harry’s hair, tucking the now loose strands behind his ear. “Want to see?”

“No.” Liam was laughing as he said it, but it was still clear. “Really don’t.”

“I might, actually,” Louis jumped in. “I don’t think Harry’s capable of bruising anyone except himself.”

“Hey!”

“He could fall on somebody,” Niall pointed out. Louis nodded sagely.

“Or knock something into somebody,” he agreed.

“Or—”

“Zayn,” Harry moaned, and dropped his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck to hide from the other men’s laughter. “They’re making fun of me. Make them stop.”

“But it’s so easy.” Harry could feel as much as hear Zayn’s chuckle. “But trust me,” Zayn added, louder. Harry really hoped the doors were closed. Students shouldn’t hear Zayn when he got that tone, that low purr that made Harry want to rub against him and feel the vibrations in his everything. “He’s very good at bruising in other ways, too.”

“You’re—” the warning bell rang. “Good. I need to get away from you two disgusting people.”

“Love you too!” Zayn called after Louis as he left, trailing Liam and Niall behind him, and Harry lifted up his head to blow a kiss at their backs that Niall caught and put in his pocket, because he was a good lad like that.

When Zayn let go of Harry to step away to get to his own class, though, Harry tightened his grip on his arm. “I didn’t…I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he muttered, all at once, like maybe Zayn wouldn’t hear if he went too fast. Or wouldn’t notice the shame in it. He hadn’t…he’d tried not to. Tried to hold back, tried not to do what he always wanted after a show and just wreck Zayn, cut into all the cool, sharp-edged parts of him that he put on when out or at parties until he was begging Harry for it, until Harry could find a space for all the adrenaline of the stage in Zayn’s skin.

But Zayn just laughed, and tugged at one of Harry’s curls. “Nah. You were just holding on pretty tight,” he teased, and pulled out of Harry’s grip with another brush of his lips against Harry’s cheek, then disappeared out of the room.

Harry followed more slowly. He had been holding on tightly. He did. He held on so tightly Zayn broke, because that was what he did, he broke Zayn, because he held on too tight and then his grip spasmed and he did stupid, stupid things that broke everything into pieces. He couldn’t do that again.

He actually couldn’t do that again, though,  couldn’t hurt Zayn like that again. He couldn’t hold on too tight, because there was nothing to hold on to. There was just him and Zayn hooking up, and that was all it was. That was all he would let it be, even if he wanted to wreck him a thousand times over, wanted his dark eyes on Harry when he performed and get to mingle with him after and then leave together like they were—like they were a they.

They weren’t. They were a Harry and a Zayn, not a Harry-and-Zayn, not anymore, because Harry held too tight, and he wouldn’t do that again. Harry set his jaw thinking about it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself ruin a good thing.

“Mr. Styles?” Harry jumped, nearly knocked over a metronome, then grabbed at a music stand to stay upright and had that fall over too.

“Yeah, Keisha?” He tried for a smile. This was work, this wasn’t home. He could tell the difference, usually. He could put his shit aside.

“Just…are you okay?”  Her usually loud voice was pitched quieter than usual, her brow furrowed nervously, and it was so cute Harry managed a real smile this time.

“Yeah,” he replied, and grabbed a hair tie off his desk to pull his hair back out of his face.  “Of course. What’s up?”

\---

_Dorothy: Status report? I didn’t get much._

_Ralphie: Nothing._

_Phoebe: Me neither._

_Tim: Mr. Horan laughed a lot, but that’s all, sorry._

_Keisha: Well, you all might be useless, but I got something. Mr. Tomlinson told me they went out in college, then broke up. But he seemed annoyed at them, so he might tell me more?_

_Phoebe: Why’d they break up! They’re perfect for each other. Just look at them!_

_Keisha: Don’t worry, I do._

_Phoebe: Keish, that’s not what I meant. Well, mainly not. They’re so adorable. Mr. Styles brings Mr. Malik lunch, did you see? And I saw them talking by the auditorium and I think Mr. Malik was rubbing Mr. Styles’s shoulders._

_Dorothy: Is that even allowed at school?_

_Carlos: You’d be surprised what you can get away with :p_

_Wanda: TMI, Carlos. TMI._

_Carlos: Just saying. There are some very convenient closets._

_Dorothy: If you aren’t going to be helpful don’t talk, Carlos. This is a good start! Let’s see if we can get more things about how they got together. If it happened once, it can happen again._

_Carlos: Ma’am yes ma’am!_

_Wanda: Still TMI, Carlos._

_Keisha: Yeah, no one needs to hear about your dirty fantasies._

_Dorothy: The not helping thing counts for all of you. Let’s go._

\---

“One two—then arm on the third and—no, Arnold, the _third_ —” Zayn bit his lip to keep from laughing from the spectacle on stage, Liam’s hands on his hips as he tried to coral the kids into some sort of rhythm, flanked by Louis and Harry, who seemed to be more laughing than helping anyway. Zayn almost considered leaving the wings to go help as well, but on the other hand lack of rhythm and pathological shyness had never taught him how to dance and he was always a backstage sort of person anyway.

“Hey, Mr. Malik?” Zayn turned away from the spectacle on stage to look to the girl who had sidled up next to him.

“Yes?” He did his best to smile. He did smile, actually, because he did like the kids, and he liked his job, and he liked Dorothy. But she was leaning in with the sort of intent, stubborn look Doniya had used to get right before she got exactly what she wanted, and that wasn’t really a look Zayn had learned to expect good things of.  “Do you need something?”

“Let’s take it from the top,” Liam sighed on stage. Harry leaned across him to mutter something to Louis, and Louis snorted. Harry grinned back, his eyes dimples deep in his cheeks like only Louis could get. It was nice to see, that smile.

“Mr. Malik?” The repetition made Zayn shake his head to clear it. Right. The student who actually wanted him to do his job.

“Yeah? Sorry, Dorothy.” Zayn turned resolutely away from the stage to focus on Dorothy. “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly. Zayn probably should have thought of that as a possibility. But he would have heard yells if anything went really wrong. “I just…wanted some advice.”

“Sure.” He glanced around, at the troupe on stage and the groups in the back. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

“No, here’s fine. I want to keep an eye on everyone.” Dorothy narrowed her eyes and gave all of backstage a suspicious glare. “So I was wondering if you could tell me about good first dates you had been on.”

Zayn coughed. That hadn’t been what he was expecting. Breath in, breath out. He was a teacher, he counseled children, he knew what to do for this. “First dates?”

“Yeah. Have there been any special ones? Maybe when you were younger?” Her pen tapped against her clipboard. “Ones that led to something serious?”

“Why—oh.” Oh, it did make sense. Because this was Dorothy, who had been planning to ask a guy out. Who had apparently been dancing around a thing with Carlos for years. Who liked to do her research first. He would need to tell Harry that he might have gotten Carlos, but at least some people trusted his romantic advice. “Well, there was one in high school, where I went to a show—”

“Not a show.” Dorothy shook her head. “No, I mean, something students could do?”

“Right.” Zayn flipped through his mental lists. There weren’t too many he remembered, honestly. He hadn’t been in enough relationships for first dates to really stick out, especially not in college and high school, when just talking to someone had been painful. “Well, a study date is always good. Low pressure.” He grinned at the memory. At Harry’s bright smile and the way he had kissed him afterwards, how he had taken Zayn totally by surprise, because of course Zayn had wanted that brilliant boy but he had never even imagined that Harry might want him back. How for once that surprise had melted into lust and excitement instead of panic. “If you get some food too, it gets more datelike,” He pursed his lips, but he was pretty sure that was about all he had. “I’m sure if you ask around other people have good ideas.”

“No, that could work…” The pen drummed again. “I—Carlos!” she snapped out, all at once, and Carlos jumped back from where he was idling near the edges of the wings. “What are you even doing here? You aren’t in the musical!”

“Can’t I support my friends?” the boy retorted, a lopsided smile on.

“You can when you aren’t going to sabotage something.”

The smile disappeared. “I wouldn’t.”

“You have! Remember—”

“That doesn’t count, we were eight!”

“Eight or not, you still mucked up my science project.”

“It was a volcano, I couldn’t—”

“No, stop.” Liam’s voice rang out, his coach voice that he had honed yelling over fields. “It’s not step spin step touch, it’s spin step step.”

“I’m sure Mr. Styles can demonstrate,” Louis interrupted Liam.

“I don’t—”

“I can!” Harry protested, cutting Liam off. The rehearsal was going quickly downhill, if Louis was getting into a teasing mood, but Zayn hid his giggle behind the back of his hand as Louis ostentatiously cleared a spot for Harry. “Ready everyone?”

“Always!” a yell came out from the back, then a drumroll on someone’s thighs. Louis picked up the clap.

Harry shook out his arms and legs, grinning like he’d almost burst with it. Then he took three steps, spun once, nearly tipped over, caught himself, and bowed to thunderous applause.

“Thank you, thank you.” He blew mock kisses to the students. “I know.”

“That was completely wrong,” Liam pointed out, but he was laughing too.

“A star doesn’t need to be right,” Harry snorted. “You just can’t handle my ballet skills.”

“No one can handle your ballet skills,” Liam retorted. “And that is not how dancing works.”

“It’s how my dancing works.” Harry made a face at him, then did a sort of sideways shuffle to get momentum before executing an at-least-recognizable pirouette off into the wings—right at Zayn.

He more or less tumbled into Zayn’s arms when he landed, and Zayn’s hands came to his hips out of instinct, steadying him as Harry dimpled down at him, laughter still in his eyes. “Aren’t I a great ballerina?” he demanded. For a second, it felt like he was going to stay, but then he took a step back, and Zayn’s hands fell to his side.

“The best ballerina of them all,” Zayn agreed, laughing back. “You put all the sixteen year olds to shame.”

“Didn’t I?” Zayn had never learned how not to smile when Harry was beaming at him like that. “We should get you out there. You could put them to shame as well.”

“In your dreams.”

Harry winked. “You do dance in my dreams. But probably not dressed appropriately for school. Your tattoos are showing, for one thing.”

“You know I can’t dance, babe.”

“You always danced fine with me.” There was something in Harry’s face Zayn couldn’t look away from. He’d never been able to look away when Harry gave him that look, like he was the best thing he’d ever seen, like he could shine as bright as Harry did. He couldn’t, and he didn’t mind that now. He was happy to watch Harry shine. But it had always warmed him, how Harry never seemed to notice that he couldn’t.

But still, accuracy was accuracy. “I think you’re misremembering.”

“I think you are.” Harry bit his lip at Zayn. On Harry, it wasn’t a nervous gesture, it was a suggestion Zayn felt all through him. “You’ve always been good with your hips.”

Zayn snorted. “Yeah? Maybe I should take you dancing, see if it lives up to memory.”

It was an offhand suggestion more than anything, a part of the flirtation, but the instant he said it Zayn was considering it. They could go dancing. Somewhere. Liam probably knew some place good, or he could research—

“No.” Harry rocked back, and the look was gone, something that Zayn almost thought was panic replacing it. “No, I—We shouldn’t.”

“Okay.” Zayn shrugged. It had just been an idea, because joking aside Harry did like to dance, and Zayn thought he could survive it for a night, if Harry had wanted to. But if Harry didn’t want to go dancing with him—well, he didn’t. And that was okay.

But what wasn’t okay was the look that was still in Harry’s eye, the way he was tugging on his hair like he did when he got nervous. “Hey,” Zayn soothed, and elbowed Harry in the ribs. “It’s okay. I’m fine not going dancing.”

“Yeah, good, I didn’t mean…” Harry was still stammering. He almost never stammered, only when he got so stressed or worried that all he could do was nuzzle into Zayn’s shoulder and stammer out explanations for what he thought was going to go wrong, how he thought he would fail.

Zayn couldn’t hug him like that, not here. But he could wrap an arm around his shoulder, tug him in until their sides were pressed together and he could circle his fingers soothingly over his shoulder. “Hey, babe,” he murmured, “’s okay. Everything’s all right.”

Harry blinked at him, long and slow. Then he closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah,” he agreed, almost reluctant. “Yeah, it is.” 

\---

“Hey, have you seen Zayn?” Harry asked, sticking his head through the door of Louis’s office. Then he paused, because both Niall and Liam were in there, peering at some paper Niall was writing in. “Was there a club meeting and I wasn’t invited?”

“Yep!” Louis agreed easily, which meant Harry had to try to see what they were writing, which meant Liam started blocking him. Harry had yet to win in any sort of physical anything with Liam, so he gave up. Louis might throw something at him next, and if he tried to dodge knowing him he would probably trip and fall. “So go away.”

“But I want in!” Harry fluttered his eyelashes as temptingly as he knew how, which plenty of people said was very tempting. He didn’t have Zayn’s eyelashes or anything, but he knew a thing or two. “Is it a secret plot? I’m good at secret plots.”

“You’re shit at secret plots,” Niall argued, which he may have had a point about. Secrets weren’t really Harry’s thing. He could keep them for a little while, but then he tended to get too excited about them and let something spill. “Remember when you and Zayn tried to keep it secret that you dated?”

“We didn’t try!” Harry had to defend his honor, though. “We just…didn’t mention it, for a while, because have you ever had an ex suddenly be your co-worker after a bad break up? It’s weird.”

“And not mentioning it was better?”

“We—” No, that wasn’t right. “Zayn didn’t think to, I think. I didn’t want you guys to think less of him or anything because he dumped me, and you know that.”

“Yeah, I just never get sick of hearing about people dumping you,” Louis inserted. Harry made a face. He would be a lot more offended if Louis hadn’t nursed him through his last break up with ice cream and vodka and cookies provided by El.

“Why was it a bad break up?” Niall asked. “You’ve never told the full story, have you?”

“No.” Harry swallowed. No, he wouldn’t have told that story. That was one secret he was good at keeping. “It just was, okay? And we’re good now. So have you seen him?”

“But you started off so well!” Liam didn’t seem to want to be distracted. Harry clenched his fists, then let them relax. They meant well. It wasn’t their fault he didn’t like to be reminded of it, of any of that. “With the _Tess of the D’Urbervilles_ and all?”

“It was _Madame Bovary_ ,” Harry corrected. “And we started well, but we didn’t end well.” He tried to give Louis his most meaningful eyebrows, so he would maybe divert the conversation.

Thankfully, Louis got the message. “All’s well that ends well, yeah?” he quipped. Which didn’t make sense, but Louis had never really cared about that. “Anyway, no, we haven’t seen Zayn. Hasn’t he gone home?”

“I don’t think so? But he’s not in his classroom.”

“Library?”

“Checked there.” What, did Liam think he didn’t know Zayn at all? “We said we would meet up to go to—”

“Have a booty call,” Niall filled in, when Harry hesitated.

“To have a mature dinner,” Harry retorted. “And then sex. But I’ll look for him, sorry for bothering you.” He made another effort to see the paper, but all he got from his craning was a hint of something that looked like DETAILS in Liam’s careful handwriting. “Unless you want to tell me your secret plan…”

“Nah, we want to keep it secret,” Liam teased, and Harry made a face as he left them behind. Once he was in the hallway, though, he hesitated. Zayn really needed to start answering his phone, but if he hadn’t done that when they were dating he wasn’t going to do it now. There weren’t that many other places he could be, other than his classroom and the library, unless he had forgotten and gone home—which wasn’t impossible, really. He’d forgotten dates before—not that that this was date. But Harry’d waited at dining halls before only to find Zayn wrapped in a book when he finally went to look for him to make sure he was okay, had sent frantic texts sure he’d been run over only to learn that Zayn had forgotten to text back. Never on purpose, Harry knew. He’d known that then, too, known that Zayn never meant to ignore him. But it had happened.

Though at least this time, he’d never missed one of their not-dates, not really. But his phone wasn’t going right to voicemail in the way it would if he was underground or it was dead, so he was probably still here. Just not in his classroom, or in the library. Or with Liam or Louis or Niall. Harry checked the teacher’s lounge, Zayn’s classroom again in case he went back, and the cafeteria, before he finally hit upon the brilliant idea of the theater.

Or, at least it was brilliant in hindsight, because Zayn was there, sitting at the table Louis had set up mainly so he would have somewhere to put his papers, his head bent over his computer. It made something almost hurt in Harry, the sight of Zayn hunched over his computer. It was one of the most vivid memories he had, sometimes—the image of him looking at Zayn completely absorbed in something else.

“Zayn?” he called, as he trotted down the aisle. Zayn didn’t look up, but Harry hadn’t expected him to. He’d always been able to tune out distractions. When he got close enough, though, Harry tried again. “Zayn.”

Zayn blinked, and dragged his eyes away from the computer to Harry. “Yeah?”

“You ready?”

“For what?”

Harry snorted. Zayn’s brow furrowed, as he tried to drag his brain back from wherever it was. “Dinner?”

“What? Oh, right.” Zayn glanced at the screen, then at Harry, then down at the screen again. “Shit, oh, fuck, I’m really late, I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t expect any differently.” Harry grinned. “Not like it was a formal—not like we really set a time.”

“Still, sorry, babe.” Despite his words, Zayn’s fingers hadn’t move away from the keyboard. “Should we—we need to go, yeah?”

“Do you want to finish?”

“I…” Zayn gave his most sheepish grin, a lopsided, wry sort of thing that was still unfairly hot. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Finish.” Harry sighed, and threw himself into the chair next to Zayn, scooting close to look over his shoulder. It looked like a student paper of some sort, given that Zayn was mainly typing in track changes. “Grading?”

“Mm-hmm,” Zayn hummed absently. He wasn’t really hearing Harry, Harry knew. He’d used to have monologues at Zayn that Zayn wouldn’t even notice. But it was nice to sit here too, to lean against Zayn and the warmth of his sweater and feel his arms moving as he typed, to get a chance to close his eyes against the stress of the day. To just breathe Zayn in, even if Zayn was somewhere else entirely.

He gave Zayn another ten minutes, during which he made a decision about the solos for the spring concert and planned his outfit for the band’s next gig, before he decided Zayn was probably finished, or should be. He’d had enough time to finish his thoughts.

“Done?”

“Hm?” Harry grinned to himself, then leaned in to whisper in Zayn’s ear, his tongue licking over the edge.

“Are you done yet?” he repeated, letting his voice go hoarse. Zayn didn’t have earrings in, because Simon wouldn’t let him, but he could still bite at where they would be, if only because it made Zayn shiver. “I think you should be done.”

“I just—”

Harry moved his lips to the edge of Zayn’s jaw. “Do you have to?”

Zayn chuckled, and Harry could almost feel him coming back, his focus shifting. “Do you have alternatives?”

“Maybe I do.” He pressed another kiss onto Zayn’s jaw, and was about to move down his neck before Zayn was turning to catch his lips, to pull him into a kiss that was somehow casual, not dramatic or even a prelude, just a kiss because he wanted to kiss Harry and Harry wanted to kiss him. Harry wasn’t really objecting, because Zayn’s lips had been right there and he had been nibbling on his lower lip distractingly for too long and now Harry wanted a turn.

It was Zayn who pulled away first. His gaze was focused on Harry now, the computer apparently totally forgotten. Harry did love it when a plan worked out. “Dinner, then?” he asked.

“Or we could skip dinner.”

“Thought you were concerned about my nutrition,” Zayn teased. Harry reached around him to shut his laptop, which conveniently put him almost in Zayn’s lap, which was high on his favorite places to be.

“We’ll have a late meal.” Harry paused. He felt like… “Is there a meat innuendo in there somewhere?”

“Don’t even try,” Zayn warned, and his hands were still on Harry’s hips when he stood up.

Harry grinned cheekily. “Or what?”

“Or maybe I’ll have to make you stop.”

“No, I’m already mad for you delaying our dinner.” Harry tapped his foot impatiently as Zayn shoved all his things into his bag. “You can’t be punishing me, not tonight.”

“Do you have a schedule?”

“You tied me up last week. It’s my turn to have my way with you.”

Zayn’s adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes went dark and intense, so Harry moved in, pulling Zayn close so he could whisper in his ear again, his palms slipping over Zayn’s ass. He really hoped there weren’t any students nearby. “Think you need to learn not to be late?”

“It’s never worked before.” Harry’s hands tightened on Zayn’s ass, and Zayn’s breath hissed out. “But yeah, fuck, you should try.”

“Good.” Harry pressed a quick kiss to Zayn’s lips, because they were there. “No dinner, then?”

“We could, still,” Zayn suggested. Harry shook his head. He didn’t want dinner, he wanted Zayn. That was simple.

“I think I have some chocolate sauce, that’ll do,” He informed Zayn, and swallowed Zayn’s laughter in another kiss before they tugged each other out the door.

\---

_Dorothy: We have the teachers’ notes, so we’re a go!_

_Phoebe: Really! Oh my god, I’m so excited! Do you think it will work?_

_Keisha: If D.A.’s put this much time into it, it’s not allowed to fail, right?_

_Dorothy: Right. It’ll work. We’re doing it tonight, so everyone be ready._

_Carlos: Really, D.A? Who are you doing it with tonight? :p_

_Dorothy: Shut up, Carlos._

_Carlos: Just wondering!_

_Wanda: Just jealous, you mean._

_Carlos: Shut up, Wanda._

\---

“Liam?” Zayn knocked on the door to the classroom, but when there wasn’t any answer he pushed the door open. “Liam, what do you—” he paused. Liam wasn’t there. Instead, Harry was there, standing in the center of the empty classroom, looking at the big circular table in the center. His hands were on his hips, and his shoulders were set like he was confused.

Zayn glanced at his watch. He was five minutes late, which wasn’t bad. “Harry?”

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t look away from the table—or the things on it. Chinese food, it looked like, and a book, and some chopsticks, and an iphone playing music Zayn vaguely recognized as being popular years ago. “I guess Louis didn’t ask you to stay late to talk about the musicale?”

“No, Liam was asking me about something for his sisters.” Except Liam was most certainly not there. Just them and the table and something scribbled on the blackboard in what looked like Dorothy’s handwriting. Those were probably the only thing in the whole building, still, honestly—it was late enough everyone else had gone home. “Or, I guess not?”

“No. Dorothy and Arnold were on their way out when I came in, so I thought that might…” Harry trailed off, bent over to peer closer. Zayn did too, resting his hand on the small of Harry’s back so that he could balance, and keep Harry balanced. “What is that?”

“I think Dorothy wrote ‘remember’,” Zayn picked the book off the table. He was pretty sure he recognized the painting on the cover, the woman in the blue dress. “ _Madame Bovary_ ,” he read.

He was close enough to Harry that he felt his muscles tense, but he didn’t have to be close to feel him jerk away, put distance between him and Zayn so he could see Harry’s wide eyes, the way his face was pale. “No.” He sniffed at the Chinese food on the table. “No, that can’t be.”

“What?”

“They’re parent trapping us.”

“What?” that really didn’t clarify anything, but Harry looked so panicked that Zayn had to move to him, to settle his hand on his hip to steady him. “Parent trapping?”

“Like, the movie, with Lindsay Lohan, or the other girls in the original. You have to have seen it.”

“Sure, Doniya was obsessed with it, but—”

“It’s—come on, Zayn.” Harry sighed, irritated like he used to be when Zayn forgot their anniversary, “You recognize this.”

“I—” Zayn did, was the thing. He had that book, and he recognized the music that was playing. He blinked. Breath in, breath out. He’d done this once, it could only be easier this time around. “This is our first date.”

“Not that you knew it was a date,” Harry agreed, with a laugh that didn’t sound at all amused. His breath was coming too fast, actually, and Zayn put his hand on his back, pulled him close. Harry turned his head to bury it in Zayn’s shoulder, taking a few long, deep breaths as Zayn ran his hand down Harry’s spine. It was nice, to hold Harry like this, with the romantic music in the background, with memories all around them. Memories of the good parts, of the first parts, before it went so wrong.

“So,” Zayn grinned, when Harry looked up again. He hadn’t started crying, at least. If this had made Harry cry, he’d probably have to beat someone up. Though—they had been good, when it had started. He wasn’t sure why Harry was crying. He was supposed to be the one who didn’t know how to deal with new situations. “Nothing like studying over food, right?”

Harry snorted out a laugh. “I almost forgot how oblivious you were,” he teased. When he pushed back against Zayn, Zayn let him go.

“I wasn’t oblivious—okay, I was,” Zayn admitted, at Harry’s skeptical look. “But I had reason to. Why would you have ever wanted to go on a date with me?”

“Do you remember how you looked then?”

“Okay, yeah, but you had talked to me.”

“Exactly.” Harry shrugged, and moved over to the table. “So everyone was in on this, probably, right?”

“Had to have been,” Zayn agreed. “I don’t think I ever told anyone the full story.”

“I probably did. I knew they were plotting something, but I didn’t…” Harry poked at the carton of rice with the chopsticks left next to them. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Who would? That’s Dorothy’s handwriting, yeah?”

“Yeah, I think all of those kids must have been in on it with them,” Harry agreed. “I definitely didn’t expect that.”

It was Zayn’s turn to shrug this time. “I wouldn’t notice.” He’d thought they’d been good, but if there was one thing he’d learned teaching, it was to never underestimate teenagers. “Are we going to eat?”

“Eat?”

“The food?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess, if they went to the trouble.” Harry pulled nervously on a curl, then sat down where the sweet and sour chicken was. “Beer?”

“Sure.” He sat down, took the Corona from Harry. Harry was staring at the open container, his brow furrowed. “Are you okay?” They’d had dinner before, after all.

“Yeah. Just. Parent Trap. Remember.” Harry pushed his hair away from his face again. “Are they trying to set us up?”

“Seems so.” Zayn took a bite of his beef with broccoli. It was still pretty warm. They must have been here right before Harry came in. “Little bit redundant, isn’t it? And the guys must have known that.”

“We aren’t together.” Harry said it like a fact, not even like an accusation.

“I know.” Zayn rolled his eyes. They’d been clear about that. Harry had been clear about that. That he hadn’t wanted Zayn for real, and Zayn had let it go, because he knew he wasn’t what Harry needed. “But we are sleeping together.”

“As fuckbuddies,” Harry insisted. He scratched his fingers down the neck of the beer in front of his place, then shook his head and pushed it away. “Right? That’s what we said.”

It was starting to irritate Zayn. Not that that was all Harry wanted, because he could respect that. He was okay with it. But Harry didn’t have to point it out so often. “Right,” he said, a little sharper than maybe he had meant, and stabbed his chopsticks back into the rice.

Harry sighed. “I didn’t—”

“It’s fine. We aren’t together.” Zayn took a deep breath. He shouldn’t get annoyed. That was what they had said, and Harry was just holding to the letter of the law. And anyway, “We can’t be, yeah? We fucked it up last time.”

“I fucked it up last time.”

Zayn’s head jerked up. All he could see was Harry’s forehead and hair, because he was looking so intently at the table, but still, “Harry, you—”

“I did, Zayn, and we both know it.” Harry’s voice was rough, too fast, like it hurt him to come out, and Zayn only held back on reaching out to him because he didn’t want Harry to push him off if he did.

“That’s not exactly how I remember it,” Zayn said instead, softly. Soothingly. When Harry just shook his head, he went on, “No, we should discuss this, right? That’s what they do in the movie. We never talked about what went wrong, either. Not really.” It was almost a laugh, him wanting to talk about things, but he’d learned some things in therapy.

“We really don’t need to.”

“We should, though. You know, figure out what happened.”

“We both know what happened.”

“Not—”

“I cheated on you!” The words were harsh in the stillness of the empty school, harsh and loud even if Harry didn’t yell them. “I cheated on you, and I broke us, and that’s what happened. Do we need to—” Harry choked, swallowed like he was swallowing down tears. “Do we need to discuss it more?”

“Harry.” Oh, Harry. This time Zayn did reach out, did rest his hand over Harry’s. “Harry, that wasn’t it, you know that. We both—”

“You weren’t the one who hooked up with someone else,” Harry insisted. He didn’t pull his hand away, but he didn’t look at Zayn either, just stared at the place where their hands met. Zayn couldn’t help but look at it too, at how their hands look together, the contrast of their skin, Harry’s big palm under Zayn’s thinner fingers. “That was me, so it was my fault. You don’t have to be nice about it. It’s, like, the worst thing I’ve ever done, and it really hurt you. I know it did, I know—”

“It wasn’t just hurt.” Harry was shaking beneath his hand, and Zayn could hear the pain in his voice, and he knew—he’d never said it before, not out loud, not really, but it was true, and if Harry could say his part he could be brave enough to manage his. If this was what they were doing, now.

“What?”

“It wasn’t just hurt,” Zayn repeated. It should have been harder to say this, somehow, but it wasn’t. “It was—like, relief, I guess.”

“Relief?” At the least some of the pain had gone from Harry’s voice, even if it was replaced with confusion.

“That…” This part was hard, apparently. This part, the part he hadn’t told anyone, or maybe only his therapist. “That, like, I didn’t have to wonder anymore.”

“Wonder?”

“Harry, I spent our whole relationship wondering if you were cheating on me.”

A beat of silence fell. Zayn couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Harry, to see the hurt he knew would be there. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, not really, that he had been so messed up.

“What?” Harry said at last, his voice rough. “Zayn, I didn’t—”

“I know that now.” Zayn shook his head. No. This was what they hadn’t done before that they should have done, so he could be honest now at least. “I knew that then, really.”

“Then why would you—how could you think that!” Harry’s voice rose, louder and faster like it did when he was upset. “I—it was only that once, and I told you even though I knew it would end things, and—”

“How could I expect otherwise?” Zayn shrugged. He still was just looking at his hands, at where Harry hadn’t pulled his away yet. Good hands. Harry had always had good hands, musicians hands. Always moving, grasping something else, where Zayn just wanted to hide under their palms.  “You were…God, Harry. You were amazing. Everyone wanted to just be near you. Everyone wanted you.”

“I didn’t want everyone.” Harry was quiet now. His fingers were quivering a little, under Zayn’s hand, so Zayn stroked his thumb over the back of his hand, to soothe him. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, or not completely. He should have said this before, stopped the guilt from eating Harry up. He just—hadn’t known he needed it. Of course. Of course he hadn’t known, that had always been the whole problem. He hadn’t known, and he hadn’t dared ask. “I just wanted you.”

“I knew that, I did.” He had. Harry had told him so every day, every time they touched, every look they exchanged. He’d known that. But it hadn’t changed anything. “But I—we both know I couldn’t be what you wanted.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

At last, Zayn looked up. Harry had fixed his gaze on him, and it was steady despite the way his shoulders were hunched like he got when wounded. “I wouldn’t—I couldn’t go out with you, be your plus one like you wanted. Like you needed. You were always going off to parties and to talk to people and I was staying home, and that—it just left, like, a lot of time to wonder, you know? About what was happening at those parties when everyone wanted to be near you.”

“You could have come!”

Another shake of his head, slower now, because Harry had never been able to understand this. “I really couldn’t, Haz. It was—like, I had to be four drinks in just to not want to hide in a corner, usually. You know how I was.”

Now Harry’s brow furrowed, and he slowly flipped his hand over, so they were palm to palm, and Zayn could feel the callouses on his skin. He’d always had those, even if everything else had changed. Still the same brilliant man underneath it all.

“I didn’t, though,” he admitted quietly. Outside, a siren sounded in the distance. “I thought—I thought you just didn’t want to go.” Even quieter, his chin dropping so he wasn’t meeting Zayn’s eyes anymore, he added, “I thought you just didn’t want me.”

“Oh, Harry.” Zayn couldn’t help the incredulity, couldn’t help reaching out with his other hand to cup Harry’s chin and raise it so he had to look at Zayn. “Of course I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Harry smiled, or tried to. It looked almost painful. “I know that now. I knew that then, too. Usually.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Zayn had adored Harry, he must have known. He’d have done anything for him. It had scared him, what had he forced himself to do to pretend he was enough for Harry. “Drove me crazy, how much I wanted you.”

That got a more real smile out of Harry, something pleased. “Yeah?”

“Harry.” Zayn brushed his finger over Harry’s cheek. “Harry, I was mad with jealousy. All the time.” It got another smile out of Harry. “You like that?”

“Twenty-year-old me does,” Harry grinned. It wasn’t his full on grin, not yet, but something had shifted. “Sometimes I did it on purpose,” he confessed. He didn’t look repentant.

“What?”

Harry shrugged. “You never—never did anything, otherwise.”

Zayn scoffed, hit Harry’s head lightly before he let go. “Asshole.”

“I did what I had to do.” Harry grinned, and drew his hand away to take a bite of his chicken. “You would never have made any moves otherwise.”

“I made a move this time!” Zayn protested, and scooped some beef with broccoli into his own mouth with his chopsticks. It had gone cold. Zayn tried not to think about the symbolism of that.

The grin faded again. “We’re not together this time.”

Zayn chewed slowly, took his time. They weren’t. Not officially. But Zayn had spent four nights out of the last week with Harry, and Harry had brought him lunch three times this week, and it felt like it used to, back when things were good, the two of them fitting together, bantering and supporting each other. He was better, this time, he was dealing with the anxiety that had broken them before. The jealousy, his neglect of Harry—he wouldn’t do that anymore. He swallowed, then took a sip of beer to roll it over in his brain one more time. It could work. It could.

Breath in, breath out. It could work. He looked at Harry, who was watching him, waiting for him to put the words together in his head, because he knew how hard that was sometimes. He wanted Harry. He always had, when he was just the hot guy in his Literature class, when he was Zayn’s friend, when he had kissed him that first time. When he had known they were breaking and couldn’t find a way to fight against it. When he had found him again, and somehow found the courage to ask for what he wanted this time, even if it was in the bottom of a bottle.

He was sober now, and he wanted Harry. He wanted what they had when they were good.

Breath in, breath out. Harry wouldn’t mock him for asking. Harry wouldn’t be mean. Harry wouldn’t look at Zayn like he had said the wrong thing.

Breath in, breath out.

“We could be,” he said at last.

Harry made a sound Zayn couldn’t identify, deep in his throat. “No, Zayn, we couldn’t be. We tried, remember? We just discussed why it didn’t work?”

“Didn’t,” Zayn agreed. At least Harry wasn’t mocking him, even if there was something that was almost anger in the set of his jaw. “Past tense. We’re not those people anymore, Haz.”

“We are!” Harry set his chopsticks down. “We’ll fall apart again, like we did last time.”

“We’ll learn from our mistakes.”

“I cheated on you, Zayn!” Harry pushed back abruptly, surged to his feet. “I had sex with another guy while we were together.” His fists were clenched at his side. So were Zayn’s, for that matter, as the words hit him. Hearing it like that—the actual facts, stripped of interpretation or nuance—it stabbed into him, like he was twenty again and Harry was telling him for the first time, his eyes red-rimmed and his fingers clutching a cup of coffee as he gazed at Zayn with entreating eyes that were somehow already resigned to what Zayn would say. Like he was walking away, leaving Harry on that bench, too many emotions to process roiling in him. “Did you forget that? Or forgive it?”

“Not forgotten,” Zayn gritted out. He leaned back in his chair. Breath in, breath out.  That was a long time ago. It didn’t make his point less valid. “Or forgiven, really.” Not for the searing pain those words had caused, the first shock of it being concrete. “Let’s say, understood. Gotten over.” Dealt with, in therapy and the realization that it had been Zayn as much as him who was responsible for their explosion, even if Harry had driven in the final nail.

“Well I haven’t.” Harry’s chin jutted out, stubborn like he so rarely got. But when he dug in his heels, he got unmovable. “Once a cheater, always a cheater, right? I won’t do that to you again.”

Zayn got up too, so he could be on a level with Harry. “I know you won’t.”

“Because I won’t be with you, not for real.” Harry’s voice rang out, steady and sure. “I can’t give myself the chance.”

“You won’t—”

“I might.” Zayn couldn’t read the emotions in Harry’s eyes, the open, raw pain in them. “It could happen. And I won’t let it.”

He wasn’t. He wouldn’t back down on this, Zayn knew, and it was so fucking stupid but—but Zayn didn’t know how to keep pushing. Didn’t know how to say that it was stupid, that Harry wouldn’t cheat this time. Maybe he couldn’t even say that, because Zayn wasn’t the boyfriend Harry needed, not then and not now, but maybe—maybe—he could be. He could be, and then Harry would see that he was being stupid. That would work, because he knew he’d never be able to convince Harry, not by talking, because the words always stuck in Zayn’s throat, never came out right, but maybe—if he showed Harry—that would work. That would be better.

 “Okay.”

“Okay?” Harry faltered. “Just—okay?”

Zayn took a deep breath. No, that wasn’t okay, he wanted to say, they would be good, they could be good, but—but it sounded stupid, out loud, sounded petty and needy and it was better to show Harry anyway. “Yeah. Okay. We have a good thing going. I don’t need to label it.”

“Oh.” Harry gave him a long look, with head tilting confusion. “Really?”

“Yeah. You should eat,” Zayn gestured to the carton with his own chopsticks. “It’s not entirely cold yet.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s lips pressed together, and he swallowed once before he sat down, his face visibly shifting as he tried to press back the emotions. Zayn waited, as he composed himself. Harry was being idiotic, but he had a good reason to. Zayn hadn’t been enough, last time. He’d get Harry to see the past was just that, that this time around he could be.


	6. Chapter 5

Louis was already waiting when Harry showed up at the music room on Monday morning. Harry took one look at him, with his excited grin and dancing eyes, and seriously considered shutting the door in his face. He was mad at Louis. He was mad at the world, really, but most of that mad had gone away over the weekend. Louis, though—Louis he was still mad at.

But Harry just nodded, even if he wasn’t smiling. “Hi,” he greeted him, unlocking his door. Louis filed in before he could shut the door on them, so Harry just went over to his desk to set his bag down and unwind his scarf, before he hung up his jacket. He was still thawing—Zayn had probably forgotten his gloves, and a scarf. He would go check on him, Harry decided, after he finished this. Even if it was just to look, even if Zayn gave him the cold, blank look that was a thousand times worse than his anger.

“So,” Louis said, before Harry could start. “You didn’t text me back all weekend.”

“I know,” Harry agreed. He hadn’t. He’d needed space from Louis, from everyone who was part of this life. So he hadn’t texted Louis back, or Liam, or Niall. He’d texted the band instead, and gotten horrifically drunk with them, enough that the remnants of a hangover remained. He wasn’t as young as he had been, Harry supposed, which wasn’t the point at all. “I’m mad at you.”

Louis apparently ignored the last bit. “Did Zayn not let you out of bed all weekend? Did you not let Zayn out of bed all weekend? Did he sweep you away—” Harry turned around to face them, perching on the edge of his desk so he could anchor himself. Louis was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, so excited about his fucking awful horrible plan. 

“Louis,” Harry interrupted him. He didn’t need any of that, didn’t need to imagine how this weekend could have gone if Louis—and the students, but he couldn’t blame them, he wasn’t allowed to, and anyway they didn’t know—hadn’t meddled, hadn’t made this into something else. He could have stayed in bed with Zayn all weekend then, sharing his warmth as Harry played with songs and Zayn read, Zayn’s hand stroking over his hair. Except now he couldn’t. Now he wasn’t even sure Zayn would look at him again. Now he wasn’t sure he should look at Zayn again.

“What?” Louis demanded. “You always text back, so I assume that the only reason you wouldn’t is that you were tied up, probably literally. I bet you two get up to kinky shenanigans—that I do not want to hear about, mind. I’m traumatized enough—”

“I didn’t text back because I was mad!”  Harry had to shout to be heard, but a glance around showed that no students were here yet, thankfully. He couldn’t—he was already about thirty seconds from breaking down again like he had Friday night, he couldn’t do that in front of students.

“Mad?” Louis repeated. “Why? Did—”

“That was cruel, Louis,” Harry said, simply. He curled his hands into fists. It wasn’t as good as having someone there, but it helped. Helped keep him together a little longer. “Really, really cruel.”

“Cruel?” the word seemed to bring Louis out of it, the glee fading as he narrowed his eyes. “You okay, Haz?”

“No!” Harry stomped. He didn’t have to be mature now. “No, because you ruined everything!”

“Ruined?” Louis was so very rarely speechless that in another situation Harry might have been amused by his mouth working without sound coming out, but he couldn’t now. “How? It was a push, that’s all.”

Harry shook his head. It was a push. A push to say things Harry didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to know that even when he thought things were good they had been fucked up. Didn’t want to know that Zayn had had problems and Harry hadn’t even noticed, that he was too busy trying desperately to get Zayn to notice him that he didn’t see Zayn struggling.

Louis’s voice was gentle when he spoke next, setting down his coffee cup so he could settle next to Harry. He wasn’t as good as Zayn at sucking out all the worry and emotion, but he was all right. He had done it for the first few years Harry had been teaching, until Zayn had come back and Harry remembered what it was like to let all his emotions out at Zayn and have Zayn gentle him back down. “It didn’t work, then?”

Harry blinked. “It couldn’t, Louis. You know why.” He might have been the only person who knew why—the only person Harry had told, one night when they had happened to get sloppy drunk and Harry had been talkative enough to confess his darkest secrets.

“No, I don’t.” Louis wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulled him in closer. Harry leaned into it, the easy, bracing warmth of him. “You guys are great together, anyone could see that.”

“I’d hurt him again.”

“You made a stupid mistake when you were young and drunk.” Louis contradicted. “You know better now.”

Harry could only shake his head. Louis might know what happened, but he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen Zayn’s face when Harry had stuttered out his confession, the way it had frozen. He hadn’t felt them break, as Zayn had nodded, face still that horrible, blank thing that Harry knew he only put on when he was feeling too much for him to process and so he was burying it all, then gotten up and walked away from Harry on that bench. “I can’t,” he’d said then, and Harry had felt the words in every inch of him, even though he had been expecting it ever since he had woken up and remembered last night, his mouth bitter with the aftertaste of beer and regret. He’d always known Zayn would be the one who could let him go when Harry would hold on too long, but the truth of it still ached.

So, “I can’t,” Harry said now, with the memory of that pain still horribly clear. With the memory of that look on Zayn’s face, how for a second before he went blank Harry had seen how much he had hurt. “I can’t know that, Louis, and if I did—” He snorted out a laugh that didn’t feel like it came from anywhere. “Once a cheater, always a cheater, right?”

“Not like this,” Louis insisted. But he couldn’t know. Zayn and him fell apart, it was what they did. Came together too hard, and then it broke them both, and Harry wouldn’t let that happen again. Not this time. Zayn deserved better.

\---

Harry waited until second period to go see Zayn, partly because Zayn taught first period, and partly to give himself time to pull himself together. He was prepared, ready for Zayn to shut him out. Maybe he hadn’t done that on Friday, not like Harry had expected, but sometimes it took a while for Zayn to process emotions, for them to sort themselves out. He hadn’t texted him all weekend, which wouldn’t have been odd two months ago but now Zayn actually did text him sometimes—usually just an invitation to come over, but sometimes it was something silly or little that made him think of Harry. Harry hadn’t really expected those to continue, the thinking of you texts that made Harry leap for his phone to respond, so it didn’t exactly hurt when he hadn’t gotten anything—except it had, a bit. Losing Zayn always hurt. But it was fair, if Zayn needed space.

Just like seeing him now hurt a bit too, leaning over a notebook at his desk. He wore a sweater over his dark button down, green against black, and it made Harry want to cuddle close. Made him want to strip off the sweater and shirt that were hiding all those other parts of Zayn he didn’t show people, that even he forgot about, the effortlessly cool tattoos and earrings that made people’s breath catch when they saw him. Or maybe that was just Harry.

He knocked. Zayn, of course, didn’t look up, so Harry didn’t bother knocking again, just wandered in until he could put a hand on Zayn’s shoulder to bring him back. He didn’t even jump, just paused, then looked up. Harry braced for the frown, for him to subtly but firmly shake Harry off, for his face to be blank like he did when he was unsure—but instead Zayn’s face bloomed into a smile, the slow, devastating thing that warmed Harry even as it confused him.

“Hey, babe,” Zayn said, pulling Harry down by his shirt collar for a quick kiss. “How’re you?”

“Good,” Harry replied, turned vague by the kiss. Then he replayed, and, “Actually, I’m confused. Aren’t you mad at me?”

“Mad?” Zayn tilted his head, like Harry was a student posing a particularly intriguing question. “Why would I be mad? We were fine last time we talked, right?”

“Because—” Because I wouldn’t go out with you? Because I broke your heart years ago? “Because you didn’t text me, all weekend, so I thought—”

“Oh.” Zayn ducked his head, bit at his lip. “Yeah, I was, like, I got—”

“Zayn,” Harry sighed, because he knew that sheepish stutter. But he couldn’t help but smile a bit too. Zayn wasn’t mad. Zayn was okay with Harry refusing to go out with him. The thought of which didn’t entirely help Harry’s mood—maybe he just realized how bad an idea it was, but of course it didn’t hit Zayn like it hit Harry. Of course his refusal didn’t devastate Zayn. Which was for the best, Harry reminded himself, and kept smiling. “Did you even look up from your computer all weekend?”

“It was books,” Zayn corrected with a laugh, and ran a hand through his hair. “I read a lot of Milton this weekend.”

“A lot?”

“Basically all,” Zayn confessed.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Did you eat?”

“Yes, Harry.” Now it was Zayn’s turn to roll his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“Did you eat something that didn’t come out of the microwave?” Harry amended, and Zayn stuck out his tongue. Harry bit back the urge to lick it, to push him back into that chair and muss him up. They were back to being friends, apparently. Harry could live with that. It was the best he could hope for.

“Does cereal count?”

“Did you have milk with it?”

Zayn chuckled, and patted Harry’s stomach like he was conceding the point. “What were you up to this weekend?” he asked instead. Harry let him deflect, because he had been trying to get Zayn to take better care of himself for almost a decade and it had yet to work. He also deflected the part of him that was yelling at him that he should have been there, should have made sure Zayn was fed and didn’t obsess and looked up from his books sometimes. But he’d never looked up from his books for Harry.

“Just hung out with the band, went out a bunch.” Zayn didn’t need to know about the other parts.

“Oh.” Zayn’s face did something complicated, his lips twisting. “Have fun?”

“Yeah, loads.” The parts when he hadn’t been miserable.

Zayn nodded, slowly. “You didn’t text me either.”

“I…wanted to give you space,” Harry explained.  He looked away from Zayn, out the window to the crisp blue sky visible around the buildings. “In case you were mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?” Zayn asked again.

Harry wrapped his hands around his thigh hard, for the bite of pain—then Zayn was there, picking his hand up, smoothing it out. Harry let out a long breath. Right. “Because of Friday,” Harry answered. Then, because sometimes it helped to be clear with Zayn, “Because I didn’t want to be in a relationship.”

Zayn bit his lip. “It’s your choice.” It hit like another knife to the chest, Zayn’s casual dismissal. Or not even a knife—it hit like a heart attack, like the opening of an old scar. “I don’t agree. But it’s your choice.”

“What?”

“I don’t agree,” Zayn repeated, smirking a little at Harry’s shock. “We’re good together. Or, I guess we could be.”

“I—”

“You won’t,” Zayn cut him off, before Harry could even get the words out, his eyes dark and steady on Harry, and utterly solid, an anchor in Harry’s mind.

But still, Zayn didn’t know. He might have grown up, might not have been as jealous now, or whatever, might have learned how to be confident—but Harry hadn’t, apparently. Not when it came to Zayn. Not when Zayn could shrug Harry off, and Harry had spent all weekend thinking about him. “I could.”

Zayn shrugged again, and pulled him in for another kiss, longer this time. Harry tried to resist, tried not to give in—but he was melting into Zayn’s touch before long. He’d never been able to resist him.

His lips were a little swollen when they separated, his hair a little messy from Harry’s hands, and Harry really wished he had ever had any willpower when it came to him. “I’ve got papers to grade. You coming over tonight?”

“I—are we still?”

Zayn’s smile faltered. “Do you still want to? Not as a relationship, just what we were doing?”

Harry shouldn’t, he knew. Not now that things had changed, not now that Zayn was thinking about more than just sex. But it was Zayn. He’d always been good at compartmentalizing, at putting Harry aside. He could separate the sex from the everything else. “Yeah.” He grinned, best he could, and ran his finger down Zayn’s chest. “Never been able to resist you.”

“Good.” Zayn said it that same sure, certain way—then he shoved at Harry again, pushing him gently off the desk. “Now I do have work to do, and so do you.”

“Did you bring lunch?”

“I was going to buy it.”

Harry knew what that meant. Vending machines, usually, because he would get so caught up he didn’t even have time to run downstairs to the deli. “I’ll be by at 12:30 to go with you,” he told Zayn, and Zayn rolled his eyes again and grinned before he went back to his work.

\---

“It’s looking good, isn’t it?” Liam leaned next to Zayn, his eyes settled on where Louis and Harry were directing the rehearsal on stage. Zayn should have been out there, probably, instead of hiding backstage, but he liked it back here better. And someone needed to oversee the kids working on the crew, who were still painting sets and assembling props. Which he would be perfectly willing to tell Louis, if he demanded him on stage.

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed. It was certainly getting there—the actors getting more settled, more confident in their lines, and their voices were getting more in tune, he thought. “The choreo looks good too,” he added, teasing, and Liam ducked his head like he always did when someone praised him for something he wasn’t confident in.

“Thanks,” he said, though. “Glad they’re getting it.”

“With some exceptions.” As if on cue, Arnold managed to trip over a loose rope and almost bring down two actors and a lifeboat. He turned as red as his hair as he staggered to his feet. Zayn winced in sympathy, but Louis just rolled his eyes and called for action again, as Harry laughed with the rest of the kids. It wasn’t malicious laughter, Zayn knew that, but he also remembered being that teenager, and he knew the tight set of Arnold’s shoulders, how he was drawing in as he walked back to his mark. “Hey, can you keep an eye on the kids back here a sec?”

“Sure, but why—”

Zayn slid out from backstage towards where Louis and Harry stood. Harry glanced over before he got to them, a surprised but pleased grin on his face—he was probably just as surprised as anyone to see Zayn on a stage—and Zayn smiled back, sliding his hand over Harry’s shoulders in greeting.

“Lou.” He leaned over so he could whisper in Louis’s ear, without any of the kids hearing. “Can you do something that doesn’t involve Arnold for a few minutes?”

“But I—”

“Louis,” Zayn cut him off firmly.

Sometimes, Louis wasn’t a total asshole. Or maybe he saw something in Zayn’s gaze about how he wasn’t budging on this. “Yeah, sure,” Louis heaved a sigh like Zayn was putting the biggest imposition in the world on him. “Okay, let’s move on to Act 2,” he announced, clapping his hands for attention, “Can I have Rizzo and Evelyn on?”

Harry stopped Zayn when he was about to follow Arnold off-stage, with a hand on his bicep. “You okay?” he asked, with that look he got when he thought Zayn might be starving himself.

Zayn smiled as he peered around Harry, making sure to keep track of Arnold. “Yeah, fine. Babe, I got to—”

“Right.” Harry let go immediately, stepping back like Zayn had shocked him. “Yeah, of course—”

“Harry.” This wasn’t the time or place, really, but Zayn still paused long enough to make sure Harry was actually looking at him. “I’m fine. I just want to talk to Arnold for a second.”

“Arnold? Because he messed up the dance? It was just a few steps, he’ll get it.”

And there was the difference between him and Harry, that Harry hadn’t noticed the laughter, hadn’t noticed the difference it made to a kid who already thought of himself as awkward. “It’s not that easy for all of us,” Zayn told him, and gave his shoulder a quick pat before he slipped around him and headed to the back of the auditorium, where he saw a mop of red hair in one of the seats.

Arnold was sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders hunched, his elbows braced on his knees. Zayn didn’t sit down next to him—he wasn’t sure Arnold would want long term company—so he waited until Arnold lifted his head with a deep breath and saw him.

“Oh!” Arnold’s eyes widened. “Sorry, Mr. Malik, should I be back on stage? I can—”

“You’re good,” Zayn cut him off as gently as he could. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah I’m dandy.” The bitterness that replaced the knee-jerk apology wasn’t unexpected, but it was horribly familiar. “Just up there looking like an idiot.”

“You weren’t as bad as it felt.”

“Great, so I should only run halfway to the moon?” Arnold snapped, then, alarmed, “Sorry! I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” Why had Zayn even wanted to do this? He should have just told Harry Arnold needed some comforting, he was so bad at this. Harry was good at settling people, Zayn just made everything more awkward. “Everyone’s probably already forgotten about it.”

“I haven’t.” No, he wouldn’t. Zayn still remembered some times in high school when he had said the wrong thing, when people had laughed.

“I know.” There wasn’t anything Zayn could really say, either. Or at least it hadn’t worked for Zayn, nothing anyone said, not his friends or his family. Maybe if Zayn was more articulate, maybe if he knew the right thing to say, it would help—but Zayn didn’t, and he never would, and he was mostly okay with that now. He could be there, though. Let Arnold know he wasn’t alone. “Do you need some time? I can make sure you aren’t called for a while.”

That got a small smile, the boy’s eyes still pained. “Could you?”

“Sure.” Zayn wouldn’t mind hiding back here sometimes himself, really. Least he could do was help someone else hide. “I’ll go let Mr. Tomlinson know.” He was a few steps away, ready to do just that, when Arnold’s quiet voice stopped him.

“Hey, Mr. Malik? Thanks.”

Zayn didn’t really know what he was thanking him for, because he hadn’t really been helpful, but he smiled back at Arnold as best he could, trying for somewhere between encouraging and wry. “No problem. But in return, could you tell your friends that as much as I appreciate their investment in my life, I’d prefer they not meddle in it?” Arnold choked, and Zayn walked away chuckling to himself. At the very least, he’d distracted him.

He climbed the stairs back onto the stage, passed on to Louis that Arnold was probably done for the day, then went back to take over from where he had dumped his kids on Liam.

“All good?”

“Aye aye, sir.” Liam saluted, and one of the guys painting an ocean on canvas did too. Zayn rolled his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. What was up?”

“Just talking to Arnold a bit.” Zayn glanced at the progress that kids were making. It was good enough, he supposed. Waves were waves.

“Because of his fall?”

“Yeah. Actually,” Zayn turned to the backstage, looked around. As usual, Carlos was loitering in the wings, chatting idly with some of the people making oars. “Hey, Carlos, come here.”

Carlos looked up as if shocked to be acknowledged, but then he grinned and jogged over. “Yeah, Mr. M?”

“I think Arnold needs a joke,” Zayn told him, straight-faced. He didn’t, actually, because he’d heard some of Carlos’s jokes and they were worse than Harry’s, but he did think Arnold needed a distraction, needed to be taken out of his head.  Needed to be reminded that there were people who didn’t care that he was awkward and didn’t know what to say, who liked him anyway. “If you’re not busy, why don’t you go tell him one?”

“Tell him a joke?” Carlos repeated skeptically.

“He’s never heard that before,” Liam added, and Carlos laughed easily.

“Yeah, tell him a joke, or something. Just, like, talk to him.” Carlos was still looking at him disbelievingly, but Zayn just waited.

“Okay,” he said at last, and shrugged. “He okay?”

“Just tell him a joke.” Zayn said again. Carlos raised his eyebrows, but trotted down the stairs, towards where Arnold was still sitting. Arnold looked up when Carlos tapped him on the shoulder, then made a face Zayn didn’t have to see to recognize, the ‘how weird are you?’ look he felt like lived constantly on his face, sometimes. But Carlos just grinned back and hopped over him to sit next to him.

“What did you want with Carlos?” Zayn glanced to his other side, and found Dorothy standing there, her hands on her hips, her trusty clipboard tucked under one elbow. “Was he making a nuisance of himself again?”

Liam covered up a snort with a cough. “No,” Zayn told her, “He’s just cheering Arnold up.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks went a bit red, and her voice went a little high. “Oh, well then. I’ll just—” she scurried away.

Liam finally lost the battle and started laughing quietly. “They’re adorable.”

“Yeah.” Young love, that first easy infatuation. It was sweet.

“Speaking of.” Liam shot him a look that was probably supposed to be subtle. “Are you and Harry okay?”

Instinctively, Zayn glanced at Harry. He was on stage, laughing with the Angels as he tried to work on “Blow Gabriel Blow”. It seemed like he had mostly given up, though, because he was just laughing as they goofed off. Zayn glanced at his watch, then remembered he had forgotten it this morning. It was probably late, then. Harry was usually good at keeping the kids on track.

“Zayn,” Liam prompted, and Zayn shook his head to clear it. Right. Question.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” he asked.

Liam’s forehead furrowed as he searched for the right words. “Because…it just looked like you were having problems. Or a fight, or something. Earlier.”

“We didn’t fight.” Zayn knew they weren’t fighting, because when Harry fought there were a lot of passive aggressive texts and sometimes yelling and tears, and there had been none of that this weekend. Harry hadn’t even seemed hurt, anymore. They were fine, Zayn just needed time to work on things. “And anyway, whose fault would that have been?”

Liam had the good grace to look away sheepishly. “It was mainly Louis,” he demurred, shamelessly throwing him under the bus. “I just…” he trailed off, then his shoulders went back and he straightened, looking Zayn right in the eye. “We just want you to be happy.”

“I know.” Zayn shrugged. It was a weird idea, but not a bad one, necessarily. He could be happy with Harry, after all. And he’d needed them to make him realize it. If he could only get Harry to realize it too. “But I think it freaked Harry out.”

“But you’re fine?”

“Yeah.” Zayn watched as Harry grinned at Purity (actually a sophomore who Zayn had never taught), and tapped at her stomach, presumably to tell her where to sing from. “Or, like, we will be.”

\---

_Phoebe: So did it work?_

_Tim: I don’t think so, they don’t seem touchier than usual._

_Keisha: I know not. Mr. Tomlinson gave me a note that we needed to “try harder”. Any one have ideas?_

_Arnold: We could stop? Mr. Malik asked me to tell us to stop._

_Dorothy: Don’t be stupid, Arnold. If they don’t know they’re meant to be together, we have to let them know._

_Arnold: But—_

_Carlos: How about poetry?_

_Dorothy: What do you mean?_

_Carlos: We could give them poetry from each other._

_Dorothy: That’s…surprisingly romantic, Carlos._

_Ralphie: Yeah, how’d you think of that so quickly?_

_Carlos: I can be romantic! I am the king of romance._

_Dorothy: Lay off, guys. That’s sweet, Carlos. Let’s start assembling good romantic poetry. Phoebe, I assume you have some?_

_Carlos: You think it’s sweet, D.A.? I sort of thought it was too frivolous for you._

_Dorothy: Of course, who doesn’t love poetry? Let’s just hope Mr. Malik and Mr. Styles do._

\---

Harry sniffed the air as he went up the stair to Zayn’s apartment. It smelled like spices, the thick warm scent that had filled Zayn’s parents’ house, that Harry always associated with things like girls’ laughter and curling up with Zayn on the couch, his arm wrapped around Zayn’s waist as he chatted with Zayn’s mum and Zayn and his father read quietly. Here, though, it felt somehow incongruous, in the narrow stairway as Harry kicked the slush off his feet as he went upstairs.

The door was closed, of course, even though Zayn had just buzzed him in, so Harry rapped sharply on the wood, or as sharply as he could through his thick gloves. He expected to wait—he usually had to, because it took Zayn a few reminders to do just about anything—but the door swung open almost immediately.

Zayn grinned at him from the doorway. He looked warm, in sweatpants and a t-shirt with a stain on the corner and his face flushed, his eyes catching the hall light so it looked like they sparkled.

“Hey, babe.” Zayn pressed up to kiss Harry lightly on the lips, then stepped aside, so Harry could come in. The scent was stronger here, probably because there was nowhere for it to go in the tiny apartment.

“Hi.” Harry unwound his scarf, stripped off his gloves. He actually hung them on the hooks that were there for that purpose, as opposed to Zayn’s coat, which lay over the armchair. Harry couldn’t even see his gloves. Probably at school. “Why does it smell so good? Is your mom in town?”

Zayn shrugged, leaning against the wall so he could watch Harry taking off his layers. It made Harry feel almost shy, that focused gaze, except for how there was nothing about him Zayn hadn’t seen. “I cooked.”

Harry, who had been leaning down to undo his boots, jolted, nearly fell over, grabbed onto an end table to steady himself, then nearly fell over again when the table just scooted forward. Zayn caught his shoulders, chuckling.

“You okay, Haz?”

“You cooked?” Harry repeated, and let Zayn draw him back up to his feet. He looked ostentatiously over Zayn’s shoulder. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing.” Zayn slapped the back of Harry’s head lightly, then let go. “It’s fine.”

“It’s you cooking,” Harry objected. He pulled off his other boot, then hurried into the kitchen. Zayn cooking had almost gotten him kicked out of the dorms, when he had managed to set off fire alarms three nights in a row.

But no fire alarms were going off in the kitchen. There was just a skillet with things frying in it, giving off smells that reminded Harry he hadn’t had a chance to eat before rehearsal, and a pot of rice on the stove, ingredients as spread out over the counter as they could be, given the fact that there wasn’t really any counter space to begin with.

“Told you nothing was burning,” Zayn gave him a pointed tap on the shoulder, then slid around him to poke at whatever was in the pan with a spatula. Harry could only gape.

“But you don’t cook.”

“Not usually,” Zayn agreed. He gave the pan a final poke, then turned off the heat. “But my mom’s taught me some.” He gave a wry grin at Harry’s still dumbfounded expression. “I do feed myself, you know.”

“Yeah, but…” But Harry somehow had always pictured it as Zayn living off of microwaved food, unless Harry cooked something for him. Of a lot of pasta and packages and nothing that involved long waiting because if Zayn started something in the interim he was liable to just focus on that and forget what was in the oven. “I remember when you almost gave yourself food poisoning because you forgot how old your milk was.”

Zayn laughed again, as he reached up above the sink to grab a bowl. His shirt rode up a little in back, so Harry could see the strip of skin above his sweatpants, all warm and golden and with just the right amount of curve for Harry to rest his hand there. Looking up farther didn’t help; there was the ink at his neck, revealed by the lower-cut neckline of his shirt, his hair curling around it and blending into the ink, longer than it had been before.

“I learned my lesson,” Zayn replied. Harry had to backtrack to remember what they were talking about, but when he did, he snorted.

“You never did.”

“Eventually, I did.” Zayn stuck out his tongue. He set the bowl on the table, settling back onto his heels, then reached over for the rice. Harry grabbed his hands before he could touch the metal, and handed him an oven mitt. “Thanks, babe.” He used it to pick up the pot—then bit at his lip as he considered. “Actually, can you take this to the table? I’ll bring the curry.”

Harry took the dish automatically, because it was programmed into him to take anything Zayn handed him, and turned and took the two steps towards the living room. Or, Harry assumed he meant the living room, because there wasn’t any room for a table anywhere else.

The coffee table had been emptied of all the assorted books and papers and other stuff that usually was piled on top of it. Instead, there were two plates, and forks, and napkins, and it looked like an actual dining room table, or a close approximation of it anyway. It wasn’t the sort of thing Zayn did, though. It was the sort of thing Harry did, setting a table just for himself, giving himself the satisfaction of a well-balanced meal in a nice setting. Zayn was more of the ‘eat at the counter out of the pot type.’ And Harry knew, because he’d seen it. Not even years ago, but last week.

“Zayn?” he asked, when Zayn came in, holding a bowl of curry. He’d even remembered a spoon to serve it with.

“What?” Zayn gave the table a final survey, then nodded with the same sort of satisfaction he gave a well-written essay.

Harry didn’t even know what the question was supposed to be. He just knew he hadn’t been expecting this when he came over, that he had been expecting sizzling heat and Zayn’s hands on him and to lose himself in Zayn again, to scratch the itch under his skin that had been the lack of Zayn for the past few days. He hadn’t expected dinner on the stove and the coziness of the room and Zayn’s soft smiles, the ones that bypassed all the defenses he’d ever made against him.

“I…” Zayn had taken a seat on the couch, and gestured to the armchair kitty-corner to it. Harry fell into it almost on instinct, watching as Zayn spooned rice and curry onto Harry’s plate, then his. He didn’t know what. He didn’t know anything, never had when Zayn was there to wipe his mind clean.

“Articulate,” Zayn teased, and kicked lightly at Harry’s shin. Harry made an offended face at him that just got another grin from Zayn, then picked up his fork to prod suspiciously at the food. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Zayn, he just—well, didn’t trust him with cooking. But everything looked fine, and the chicken looked cooked all the way through, and it smelled great, so Harry cautiously scooped some onto his fork. He had almost raised it to his lips when it struck him what felt so off about this.

This wasn’t just them ordering pizza and hanging out. This wasn’t them getting off then scrounging for food because they were famished. This was Zayn cooking dinner for Harry, after which they might talk and then have sex. This was basically what it had been like before, except Harry had been the one who had cooked, when they came back from classes and ate dinner together and then fell into bed, unless Harry was going out. Sometimes even if Harry was going out, because he wasn’t above trying to use sex to convince Zayn to come with him, and Zayn wasn’t above using sex to distract him. Or maybe claim him, Harry thought now, looking back with what Zayn had said in mind. Maybe he had needed to keep Harry marked as his, to send him off to gigs or parties with Zayn’s scent on him and the memories of their skin together burned into Harry’s mind. It wasn’t like Harry had objected, when Zayn had set down his book and looked back, for once. When they had cuddled up together and Zayn’s hands had carded through his hair and he would smile at him so soft and fond that Harry could almost believe that he liked having Harry there as much as Harry needed Zayn there.

But this wasn’t then. And they weren’t…anything, to be domestic and easy together. Well, they were friends, so they could be easy together, Harry didn’t want to ruin that, didn’t want to push Zayn away for good because it had hurt too much to lose him the first time. But this was dangerous, if Zayn was making him food and smiling at him like that again.

“Zayn, is this a date?” Harry asked, setting the fork down. If he didn’t eat any of it, it didn’t count. He could still leave. He could still just climb into Zayn’s lap and suck him off so they had sex before they ate and it didn’t count. “Did you make me dinner?”

Zayn’s eyebrows went up. “I mean, yeah?”

“No, like, did you make me dinner? So we could have a date? Because Zayn,” Harry leaned forward, because Zayn still looked confused, like he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. “That’s not something you can do. We’re not in a relationship.”

“I know,” Zayn’s face smoothed out, and he took a bite of the curry before continuing. Some liquid slipped onto his lips, and his tongue flicked out to lap it up, pink and wide and Harry wanted to suck the spice off of it. But this wasn’t the time, he told himself sternly. “You’ve made that clear, Haz. I just felt like cooking, and made enough for more than just me.”

“And the table?”

“I’m not allowed to put out plates?” Zayn rolled his eyes, then set down his fork to put a hand on Harry’s knee. It felt like it burned through Harry’s jeans. “It’s just dinner, Harry. You make me food all the time. I just felt like feeding you for once.”

That did make some sort of sense. Harry did feed Zayn more times than not. “Okay,” he said, still suspicious. But Zayn moved his hand off of Harry’s knee, even if his toes stayed pressed against Harry’s foot, and Harry really was hungry, so he took a cautious sample.

“Zayn!” Harry swallowed the bite, and shoveled more onto his fork. “This is really good!”

Zayn grinned. “Told you I could cook.”

“Well, now I’m not making you any more food.” Harry teased back. “If you can feed yourself this well, don’t know what I’m here for.”

“We said, right? You’re here to get off with.”

He was teasing. Harry knew he was teasing, knew he was being silly and they were both joking, and anyway that was what they had wanted, but it still hurt, somehow. No, it made sense it hurt, because they were supposed to be friends first and foremost and Harry needed Zayn to be there to ground him but Zayn just needed Harry to get off and—

“Babe.” Zayn’s hand came down on Harry’s knee again, a steady, anchoring weight. “C’mon, Haz, you know that’s not true. I’d have starved and frozen and probably gotten run over a thousand times this year alone if it weren’t for you.”

Harry tried for a smile. Zayn wouldn’t really notice the difference. “I know.” But it wasn’t true, was it, because Zayn could cook and Zayn was thriving at school and sure Harry helped but he wasn’t needed, not like he used to be. Not that he wanted to be again. Harry looked down at the hand on his knee, then put down his fork so he could cover it with his own. It was time to take this back to comfortable territory. “So do I get a reward for that?”

Zayn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Can we eat first?”

Harry had never really been able to say no to Zayn, not when he so rarely asked for anything. And there was something about the tentativeness with which he said it that struck Harry to the heart, like he thought Harry might say no. Like he thought Harry would ever be able to push Zayn away again.

So they ate until Harry was comfortably full and warm from the spices and Zayn’s eyes on him, chatting about school and Harry’s band and Harry’s classes and cabbages and kings and all that stuff that was easy between them, usually. The things they had talked about before Harry remembered how Zayn’s fingers felt on his skin and how pink and soft his lips were.

Until Zayn leaned back on the couch, his fingers interlaced on his stomach, what looked like every muscle in his body relaxed. Harry had never really gotten that relaxed, not even the few times he had smoked up in college. He had always gotten energetic then, until Zayn would pull him in to kiss the energy out of him, all lazy lips and roaming hands, while Harry would sit on his lap and vibrate with need, the need for Zayn and for him to hurry up and do something.

It was the memory of those nights, and the look of Zayn, the way his eyes glinted gold under half-lowered lashes, the way his lips were curled just a bit upwards like he liked what he saw, the way his shirt rode up under his fingers so Harry could see the trail of hair leading down into his sweats, that made Harry point out, “We’re done with dinner.”

“We are,” Zayn agreed. His lips twitched, and the shifted slightly, his legs spreading just a little, like he was inviting Harry to fit between them. God, Harry wanted to. Wanted to kneel between his legs and take his calm right out of him, wanted to take him apart so he was moaning Harry’s name and he had forgotten everything else in the world that had ever distracted him from Harry. “Want desert?”

“Yes.” Harry got up, dodged the table, and somehow managed to land next to Zayn.

Zayn just watched Harry get control of his limbs again, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Think I have some ice cream or something.”

“Not what I meant,” Harry whined, because he knew Zayn was teasing and it wasn’t nice, and kissed him.

His mouth tasted of curry and smoke and Zayn, and it was so much better than the food, so much better than anything, just the heat of Zayn’s body and his hands as one came up to cup his neck gently. But Harry didn’t want gentle, not tonight. Not with the smell of the food Zayn had made him all around them, or the ease with which he fell into Zayn’s body. He wanted fast and hard and something to cleanse him of this, like maybe he could get Zayn out of his system if they fucked hard enough, like maybe if he gave Zayn everything that would be enough.

He bit at Zayn’s lips, because that usually got him going, and it worked because Zayn’s mouth opened and Harry could slide his tongue in, straddling Zayn without breaking their lips. He just tasted so good, and his hand tightened on Harry’s neck until it almost hurt, which was good, Harry wanted that, wanted the bite of Zayn’s nails and the scrape of his teeth, so he rolled his hips and moaned filthily into Zayn’s mouth, let him feel what he did to Harry, what Harry could do to him, as he went straight for the hem of Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn’s hand grabbed his, held, but Harry just whined and sucked on Zayn’s lip, which usually worked. Except Zayn didn’t move his hand, just pulled Harry off of him, which was even worse.

“What’s your hurry?” He was smiling, like it didn’t matter, like this was something they did, making out on the couch after a dinner Zayn had made them. Like this could last, like Harry wouldn’t ruin it again, like Zayn would always smile at him with that fond look like Harry was all he needed.

“Want you,” Harry muttered, and tried to kiss Zayn again, but Zayn dodged.

“Want you too,” he murmured, his hand sliding from Harry’s neck to pet his hair. “But come on, bed.”

“Since when do we need a bed?”

Zayn laughed. “I want you on a bed, tonight,” he told Harry, and stood, somehow making Harry stand too. Harry pushed back, into him. Beds were dangerous. Beds were for things that mattered, and Harry couldn’t handle that tonight. Not after how Zayn had looked on Friday, suggesting a relationship like it was just a thing they could do. Not after Zayn made him dinner when he could barely feed himself, feeding him and looking at him like he mattered, like he wanted to know about his life. He needed Zayn, but couches were easy, couches were frantic and hurried and didn’t really matter.

“But I want you now,” he demanded, trying to go more for seductive than desperate. He slid his hands down Zayn’s back to his ass, cupped it to bring him closer. “We’re flexible.”

“Bed,” Zayn repeated. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, so he could play with the hairs at the nape of his neck, and Harry had never been able to resist that, not really. Not with Zayn’s fingers carding through his hair and their bodies pressed together and he was so warm and smelled so good and so Zayn-like, and Harry couldn’t really resist when Zayn walked him backwards through the living room and the few steps into Zayn’s room.

Fine, they could do a bed, it would give them more room, that was okay. Harry could deal with that. He got a hand in Zayn’s shirt to pull him back down onto the bed—but once again, Zayn didn’t move, just ran his hands down Harry’s shoulders until they were on his hips.

“Want to see you,” he hummed, and it resonated through Harry, until he was vibrating with it, with that want and need and the desperate desire to be whatever Zayn wanted him to be. He hadn’t felt like this in ages, not since he was a kid and he would have set off fireworks on his skin if it meant Zayn would just look at him.

“No, now,” he retorted. He didn’t want to be that person. He couldn’t be that person, because that person was broken and that person hurt Zayn.

“Chill, babe.” Zayn nosed gently at his neck, his fingers sliding under Harry’s shirt, spreading goosebumps as they went. “We’ve got all night.”

They could take all night, or they used to be able to, taking each other apart slowly and thoroughly, but no matter how much Harry ached at the memory he didn’t—that couldn’t happen again, not now. It couldn’t, he told himself, as Zayn pressed lazy kisses to his neck as he slowly, leisurely undid his shirt and eased it off of Harry’s shoulders. As he knelt to pull off Harry’s pants, trailing his fingers over his thighs like he was savoring it. As he finally let Harry pull off Zayn’s shirt, so they were skin to skin, so Harry was whining into Zayn’s shoulder as he stroked Harry’s back in long, lazy passes that set Harry aflame.

“Please,” he moaned, and he didn’t know what he was begging for but Zayn must have, because Zayn always knew, because Zayn saw everything except the most important things, or maybe he only saw that. Zayn eased them both down onto the bed, so Zayn was straddling Harry’s hips as they kissed. Harry tried biting again, tried to make it feel less like Zayn was dismantling him with every touch—but Zayn gentled him back down with soft lips and touches, and there were some things Zayn couldn’t be moved on. There were some things Harry couldn’t bring himself to move Zayn on, when he looked at Harry with that dark, intense gaze, like he couldn’t see anything in the world but Harry.

He kissed down Harry’s stomach, detouring around his cock already aching from their making out, then licked a long, slow stripe down from his balls to his hole that had Harry keening, arching up.

“Zayn!” he groaned. He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t wanted Zayn to give this to him. He’d wanted Zayn in the backyard at Kappa biting into him like he’d brand him, not Zayn stroking his stomach with gentle fingers as his tongue circled Harry’s hole, holding him down just enough that he could feel everything, that he couldn’t escape from it, couldn’t escape from the unrelenting pleasure and concentration of Zayn.

His tongue slid into Harry and Harry’s hips bucked into Zayn’s hands, his fists balled at his sides as Zayn slowly, methodically, beautifully brought him to pieces, first with his tongue, then when Harry was a constant vibration of need with his fingers, sliding them in smoothly, opening Harry up as he gazed down at Harry liked he had never seen anything better, when really Harry was the one who had never seen anything better than Zayn focusing everything on him, until it was too much and Harry had to kiss him so he wouldn’t see that look anymore.

Zayn kissed him back, three fingers steady in him, his other hand petting Harry’s hair until he could almost breathe again. Zayn did that, always had, made it so Harry could breathe again, so he could find his way back to rational, solid ground, except now he didn’t know where that ground was, because all he knew right now was Zayn’s skin and lips and fingers, until those fingers left.   

“Fuck, Zayn, please,” he panted.

“One second.” It was more than a second, it was a lifetime, a lifetime of Zayn leaving, but then Zayn was back, with a condom on, and presumably lube because Harry could feel its coolness as Zayn slowly slid into him. Zayn’s breath hitched as he bottomed out, and it felt like it drew the breath out of Harry too, the combination of Zayn in him and knowing how much Zayn liked being in him, how Zayn’s face screwed up in concentration, trying not to move while Harry rocked his hips, adjusting, even if a part of him felt like he’d never need to, not when it was Zayn pressed into his skin like he’d never left.

“Yeah—please—” he whined, digging his fingers into Zayn’s shoulders for lack of a better place, and then Zayn was moving, thrusting into him with rough breathes and inarticulate murmurs through which Harry thought he could make out his name.

Harry groaned as Zayn shifted, changing the angle enough that it hit his prostate and his back arched, then lost his breath again as Zayn wrapped a hand around him to jerk him off as he thrust into him, still so horribly slow and wonderful and with that look on his face Harry’d never known what to do with because it felt like such a tease. But right now, in this moment, he could savor it, savor Zayn and him together like they could never come apart, savor it until he was coming on another long stroke from Zayn, his fingers digging into Zayn’s shoulder, his voice choked as he sobbed out Zayn’s name.

He sagged back onto the mattress, loose-limbed, as Zayn stilled, those eyes still dark and focused on him. He could only smile, and pull Zayn back to him to kiss him.

Zayn kissed him back, lazy and dirty, but Harry could feel how tense he was, all that control turned inwards. “Harry,” he panted, when Harry let his mouth go. “Haz—please—I—”

“Yeah.” Harry wrapped his arms around Zayn, pulled him close. “Come on, Zayn. I’ve got you.”

Zayn moaned into Harry’s shoulder as he came, like he’d lost all his words, then he let himself collapse onto Harry.

Harry didn’t move. Couldn’t, really, not after that. He knew he’d be freaking out as soon as the endorphins receded, because this was supposed to be quick and hard, scratching an itch, not this. He wasn’t supposed to feel bereft when Zayn pulled out, when he sat up to discard the condom and to get a washcloth. He wasn’t supposed to smile so stupidly while he watched Zayn clean him up, mopping the come off his stomach almost tenderly. He certainly wasn’t supposed to feel his heart fill up when Zayn lay back down next to him, as they rearranged themselves so Harry’s head rested on Zayn’s chest, with Zayn’s fingers twining in Harry’s hair.

“God, Haz,” Zayn said. He spoke quietly, but the room was as silent as it could be in New York, only the faint sound of traffic outside, a bass pounding somewhere in the distance. “I think I could fall in love with you.”

Harry snorted, and turned his face into Zayn’s skin so Zayn couldn’t see him. “Don’t,” he warned. “That’s not what we’re doing.”

“You’ve said.” Zayn carded Harry’s hair back from his face, but Harry knew he still couldn’t see. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d known how far past ‘could’ Harry had gone, if he had ever stopped at all. 


	7. Chapter 6

_~~Hey D.A. would you like~~ _

_~~D.A. we’ve known each other since forever and I~~ _

_~~Yo D.A. we should grab a burger together sometimes and get married and this is so stupid why is this so hard~~ _

\---

Zayn paused in the doorway of Harry’s classroom. He’d meant to knock, or just to go in—but he didn’t see Harry like this often, bent over his piano, just playing softly to himself. He wasn’t really a pianist—he’d always been a singer before everything—but there was something about him like this. Just him and the music. Zayn could only see his back from here, his hunched shoulders, but he didn’t have to see Harry’s face to know what he’d look like. Didn’t have to see Harry’s face to know that he’d look calm, look happy. He always was, when he was surrounded by music, even if he wasn’t on stage. Zayn wanted to sink into that calm, to go and sit next to him on the bench and just listen, to feel them being calm together, because Harry so rarely was.

He forwent knocking, instead just walked in. He didn’t try to be quiet, but the piano was loud enough Harry didn’t hear him as he approached, not even when he got close enough that Zayn could lean over him and slide his arms around his neck, slowly enough to let Harry recognize his touch, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder. This was what they needed, what they could be, he wanted to yell. The two of them and everything good between them. This was what they were, and why wouldn’t Harry just see that?

“Hey, babe,” he murmured. Harry was so warm like this, his hair wrapping Zayn in the smell of coconut, so easy in how he melted back into Zayn. “Sounds great.”

“Thanks.” Harry played one final chord, then sat up straighter, throwing Zayn off. It could have been accidental, Zayn told himself, but it wasn’t. Zayn had been trying, had been asking more about his life, had been texting him and had gone to another one of his gigs all on his own, and Harry still threw him off, and it wasn’t an accident. But Zayn would do it. He would get Harry to stop pushing him away. When Harry turned on the bench, though, lifting his feet to properly spin around, his smile was bright, if dimpleless. “Just messing around with some stuff for the chorus concert.”

“You gonna sing this year?”

Harry snorted. “The concert’s for the kids, Zayn.” His dimples flashed. “Don’t want to upstage them, do I?”

“You’re just afraid you’d be the one to be upstaged,” Zayn retorted. Harry stuck his tongue out at him.

“You’ve caught me, I’m living my life wrapped up in jealousy for teenagers,” Harry agreed. His deadpan expression lasted for about ten seconds before his smile broke through. “God, can you imagine? Being a teenager again?”

Zayn shuddered. “Anything but that.”

“Oh, sure.” Harry’s hand lifted up like he was going to pull Zayn down next to him, then dropped into his lap. Zayn settled against the side of the piano instead. “Like you weren’t the star of the school. I’ve seen your report cards, Zayn.”

“And I’ve seen your Facebook wall,” Zayn shot back. Harry’d always had some weird conception that everyone liked Zayn as much as he did, that everyone managed to bulldoze through all of Zayn’s stuttering and awkwardness and still liked what they saw underneath. It was easy to think that, Zayn’d always figured, when no one had disliked you a day in your life; when you only needed to smile at people to make them fall at your feet. “How many friends do you have?”

“No one uses Facebook anymore Zayn, god.” Harry gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Get with the times. Do you even have an Instagram?”

“What would I do with it?”

“Make the world a more beautiful place by posting selfies.” Harry’s grin turned mischievous. “Add to my spank bank by posting shirtless selfies.”

Now it was Zayn’s turn to roll his eyes, and he glanced at the door before he edged forward, nudging Harry’s knees apart with his thighs. “You still need pictures when you could just have me shirtless?”

“Pictures last forever,” Harry shot back. His head tipped back so he could keep looking at Zayn, though his hands stayed planted on his knees.

“You saying I’m not going to age well?”

“I’ve seen your dad, I know you’ll age well.” Zayn wrinkled his nose. He didn’t need to know that. “But…”

“But what?”

Harry bit his lip, and his gaze slid away from Zayn’s, off to the side of the room. “But I’ll need something to wank off to when we’re done, won’t I?”

When they were done. Right. Because Harry still persisted in thinking he was going to break them again, in thinking they were still as good as teenagers. That Zayn would drive him away again, even though he’d been trying so hard.

No. He could do this. He could prove to Harry he would be enough, this time. That they would fit together right, this time, that Zayn had bent so their pieces fit together.

“Let’s go out this weekend.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. To be fair, Zayn was pretty sure his were too, because he hadn’t planned to say that. Hadn’t planned to propose that.  But it was a good idea. The right idea. He could do this, and he could prove to Harry he could. That he could be the person Harry needed him to be, who went out with him and danced and wouldn’t hide in corners and want to shrivel up and die in a club. He was better than that, now. He would be better than that, and Harry would see.

“I’m not going on a date with you, Zayn, I told you—”

“Not a date. Like, have a night out.”

Harry’s eyebrows had lowered, but now he was just giving Zayn a narrow-eyed look, like he was considering if Zayn had been replaced by aliens. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed, though. “We can see if the others want in, go to that one bar by you, that pub—”

“No,” Zayn interrupted. “No, like, out out. You’ve got mates who can get us into a club, right?” Harry always had friends with connections. And if he didn’t, Niall would.

“A club.” It wasn’t even a question, though Harry’s mouth looked about a second away from just dropping open. “You hate clubs.”

Zayn shrugged, because it wasn’t like that wasn’t true. “But you like to dance. We should go. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” Harry echoed. “Zayn, I used to have to bribe you with blowjobs to get you out of bed on a Saturday.”

“I wouldn’t say no to the blowjobs, if that was an offer,” Zayn teased. He wished Harry would just agree. It wasn’t a big deal. Or, it wasn’t for Harry, because clubs were definitely usually not his scene and the mere idea of it was making his skin crawl a little in anticipated nerves, but Harry loved clubs, always had loved to dance, shamelessly throwing his body around in a way Zayn never had been able to, and Zayn could do what Harry wanted, sometimes. This time, he could. He’d be what Harry needed. “But, a club, yeah? You can do the whole—getting us in thing?”

“Yeah. I mean—yeah, I think Ryan knows some people, I’ll find something. Are you sure?” Harry repeated. His hands were on Zayn’s shoulders now, pulling him down lightly so Harry could properly look him in the eyes. He looked like he did when Zayn forgot his gloves, or when Zayn mentioned how he had forgotten to eat. Like he had when Zayn had ended up pulling three all-nighters in a row because he kept on forgetting he had papers due the next morning.

Zayn laughed, and pulled on a curl. “It’s just a club, babe. I’ll be fine.” He’d be sure to take his meds, he would be fine. And there would be plenty of alcohol, at least. No.  No alcohol. He’d just prepare, and it would be okay. He’d take Harry somewhere he wanted to go, for once. “Thanks for worrying, though.”

“I always worry about you.” Harry smiled, and Zayn had to kiss him then, just peck him on those smiling lips with his still-concerned eyes.

“Think a club is the least of the things that’s going to kill me,” he pointed out.

It got a real smile out of Harry, dimples appearing sheepishly in his cheeks. “You don’t know that. There could be a fire. Or a stampede. Or an axe murderer!”

Those sounded like things Zayn could handle better than just a club, really. But he could. He wasn’t that kid anymore, and he wouldn’t be selfish. Not anymore. And then—then Harry’d see this was right, this was good, that he wouldn’t hurt Zayn because Zayn wouldn’t give him a reason to, not this time.

\---

“He wants to go to a club,” Harry said. From Jules’s eye roll, it might have been the hundredth time he said it since they started rehearsal, but it still bore repeating. “A club!”

“You’ve said,” Ryan retorted shortly, turning away to put his guitar in its case. “I don’t see what’s so amazing about that.”

“It’s Zayn,” Harry explained. Break down was always pretty boring for him, because he didn’t have anything to put away, so he spun on the stool of Jules’s drum kit and watched James and Ryan put away their instruments. “He doesn’t do that.”

“He should.” Jules hummed, her eyes glinting. “Bet he’d be hot on the dance floor. Does he know how to use his hips?”

“For sure.” Harry winked. “But not on the dance floor.”

Jules shut her eyes, a dreamy expression on. “Can I tag along? Please?”

“No.” It came out more snappish than Harry had expected. He probably should let her tag along. Let her come and seduce Zayn with her post-grad education and delicate features, so Harry would remember what he couldn’t do, but—“No. No coming and seducing my fuckbuddy.”

“Are you allowed to be possessive of your fuckbuddy?” James asked pensively. “Feels like that sort of defeats the purpose of being fuck buddies.”

“It’s Harry, he’s possessive of everything.” Jules rolled her eyes. “But fine. I won’t seduce him. You can do that.”

“No, it’ll be—like, he really doesn’t do this.” They weren’t getting it. Weren’t getting why Harry was almost panicking, because Zayn acting this much out of character meant something was wrong, and being Zayn he wouldn’t tell Harry what was wrong, or maybe he hadn’t even noticed, and then Harry would end up in the sort of downward spiral of worry he usually needed Zayn to keep him out of. “You might think he does, because of his whole—things,” Harry gestured vaguely to his face and body, trying to encompass all of the pretty-cool-tattoos-earrings parts of Zayn, “But he won’t even come to our bigger gigs. He never comes out with me.”

“Sounds neglectful,” Ryan observed, from where he was still fiddling with his guitar. Harry spun around to glare. Then he remembered to temper his glare, because Ryan’s crush on him wasn’t anyone’s fault, and he wasn’t encouraging it but that didn’t mean he had to be mean about it.

“It’s not,” Harry said instead. “He just doesn’t like it. And it’s not like it’s new. He’s loads more social than he was in college.” Harry pursed his lips together. Thinking about that was dangerous. Thinking about how nice it felt that sometimes Zayn wanted to be with him was dangerous. How he’d been texting him back regularly, how he’d been…attentive, lately. How nice it had been that Zayn proposed this, that Zayn wanted to be out with him. It was dangerous and it made Harry worry more, too, that something was wrong because he didn’t do this. Because this wasn’t Zayn, even the older Zayn.

He crumpled his fingers over the notepaper in his pocket, the note of something he’d discovered through googling was Neruda that had been in his jacket pocket this evening. He’d tell Zayn off about that, he would. Soon. “Anyway, that’s not the point.” He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten there, when what he’d set out to say was, “So, Ryan. Can you get us in?”

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. Harry gave his most plaintive look. It wasn’t fair. This was using his crush, he knew, and it was a little bit manipulative. But Ryan also worked in publicity and had all sorts of favors and knew all sorts of people, so was definitely Harry’s best bet, and if Zayn wanted to go dancing with Harry he was going to savor the moment.

Ryan’s lips curved into something that was almost a smile and he nodded, a bit reluctantly. “Sure. For you and your friends?”

“Yes please! You’re the best.” He leapt off his stool to go hug Ryan, because he deserved that. “Six of us.”

Ryan went stiff, then leaned into Harry. Harry let him for a second, before he pulled away. He didn’t want to lead him on or anything. Not that Harry was spoken for. Except…except it wouldn’t do anyone any good, Harry starting something when everything in him came around to Zayn in the end. Until he got that out of his system, if he ever did, he couldn’t. And anyway, he didn’t like Ryan, not like that. He was a little too sharp, a little too cold. Not like Zayn who was all gooey marshmallow center under his pretend coolness. Ryan wouldn’t cuddle Harry when he was too caught in his head, wouldn’t know when Harry had to just sit with him and _be_.

“Is he really that great?” Ryan asked, when Harry had pulled away and bounced back to the stool. “Sure, he’s hot. But does he ever talk?”

“He talks to important people,” Harry evened out his voice. He knew people sometimes had bad first impressions of Zayn, and it wasn’t their fault, really, that Zayn came off as cold before you knew him. “To people he cares about. He just doesn’t always know what to say.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Ryan snorted. “Is he on the spectrum or something?”

“Ryan.” James’s voice rolled out, a heavy, solid sound that cut through whatever Harry was going to say.

“I’m just saying,” Ryan retorted. He patted at his slicked back hair. “Doesn’t he forget to eat sometimes because he’s too busy reading?”

“That was ages ago, and he just gets caught up. He’s focused.” Harry did glare now, his arms crossed over his chest. “And he’s far smarter than you’ll ever be, so leave him alone.”

“Well, I wouldn’t neglect going out with my boyfriend for a book, is all.” Ryan shouldered his guitar case, as Harry scoffed. It wasn’t—that—well, it had happened, sort of, but that’s why they weren’t going out, because you were allowed to have things more important than a fuckbuddy, so Harry couldn’t get emotional about it and couldn’t do something stupid. “I’ll text you the details, Harry. See you all Friday.”

“Later!” Jules called out. James grunted. Harry tried to smile.

“See you, Ryan.”

James sighed, once he was gone. “He didn’t really mean it, Harry. He’s just—”

“Jealous, I know.” Harry glanced at his hands. “And he’s not really wrong. Zayn is forgetful, and I wasn’t always his priority.” He studied his fingernails. “But we aren’t going out, so I’m not supposed to be his priority, so everything’s good!” He smiled as brightly as he could, looking up. Neither James nor Jules looked particularly convinced, but that was true, so Harry would take it. “Now, anyone else up for a drink? Or are we off?”

“I’ve got grading.” Jules made a face.

“And I said I’d put the kids to bed,” James added. “Looks like you’re on your own.”

“Fine.” Harry didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t grinning, or that he wasn’t thinking about how quickly he could get from their practice space to Zayn’s apartment. “Abandon me.”

Jules grinned back. “Give your boy a kiss from me.”

“He’s not my boy. And you don’t get to kiss him,” Harry retorted, and they were laughing as they left.

Harry tried to carry that laughter with him on the train, as he held onto the rail and ignored the man muttering to himself in the corner. He usually did everything he could not to think about what had happened—not as much as he avoided thinking about that last conversation, avoided thinking about watching Zayn break—but the night before was bad too. It hadn’t even been a fight. A fight would have been good. A fight would have been justified. But it had been simple, just Zayn not wanting to go to Harry’s gig that night, his biggest one yet. And not even him refusing, which Harry was used to—he’d just ignored it when Harry’d hinted he wanted Zayn there. He probably hadn’t even noticed the hints. Hadn’t noticed Harry needed him. And sure, it had hurt when he hadn’t even looked up from his homework when Harry had come by beforehand, hadn’t even bothered to give Harry a kiss good luck, didn’t tell Harry he looked good or he would do well or that he didn’t need to worry, but that didn’t justify anything.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He didn’t want to dwell on that. It had happened, he had done that, he had gotten lost in beer and success and the heady rush of the crowd’s adoration and that one boy’s in particular. Harry couldn’t even remember his name, if he ever knew it; couldn’t really remember anything about him except he had hazel eyes and he looked at Harry like he was the second coming of Christ.

Fuck, Harry had to stop thinking about it. He put on headphones, tried to drown out the memories with a new album, but it was just there, the guilt and the hurt and the want all mixed up together so he couldn’t piece them apart.

The cold of outside was a welcome relief, somehow sobering even though Harry wasn’t drunk. It put him in the here and now, in the city streets rather than that smoky dive bar where he had looked out and his boyfriend wasn’t there, his boyfriend hadn’t cared enough to come and see him sing, hadn’t cared that this was a big deal for him, had rather read or do homework than watch him. Zayn had cared, and Harry knew that now—he’d known that then, too—but it had been so hard to convince himself of that sometimes, and in that bar it was worse than ever, remembering how easily Zayn had ignored him, when whenever Zayn was in the room Harry couldn’t help but stare.

Harry rang the buzzer to Zayn’s building, then climbed the stairs deliberately. Zayn was waiting at the top of the stairs, a soft, easy smile on, so fucking gorgeous and welcoming and Harry could read the fondness in that smile if nothing else, even if his brow furrowed when he saw Harry.

“Babe,” he asked, his head tilting. “Are you okay?”

Harry took a deep breath in, and out. It was easier, with Zayn smiling at him. “Yeah. I’m fine. Can I come in?”

“’course.” Zayn stepped back enough to let Harry in, then drew him immediately into a hug, ignoring his chilled coat and skin. “It’s okay,” he murmured, like he knew what was wrong, like he knew him just being there was everything Harry needed and couldn’t have. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He wrapped his arms around Zayn, held him close, breathed in the smoke and musk scent of him. He was here. He wasn’t here, and Harry wasn’t going to hurt him again. He could do this.

\---

Zayn stared at the mirror, took long deep breaths in and out. It was just a club. He’d gone over situations, thought about possible reactions, done all the thought exercises his therapist had trained him in. It was just a club. He had gone to plenty of bars recently, had done mixers at the school and gone to Harry’s gigs. This was just that, only slightly more. He didn’t even have to dance if he didn’t want to. He could control this situation.

“Hey, you ready?” Louis called from the living room. “If we leave now, we’ll only be half an hour later than we said.”

“They won’t expect anything else.” Zayn gave himself one more look in the mirror. He didn’t look on edge. He looked good, with the sort of armor he’d long since perfected; the leather jacket and styled hair and trimmed beard. He was fine. This was—he was proving a point. He was capable of doing this, of doing this for Harry. “Yeah, I’m good.”  

“Then hurry up!” Zayn nodded firmly, gave the meds in the cupboard a look, just to remind himself he had them, that he had taken them this morning and would take one tomorrow, and left the room. He would be fine. Breath in, breath out.

Louis rolled his eyes at him as he came into the living room. “Primped enough?” he demanded. His foot was tapping impatiently, but he still glanced around, and before Zayn had a chance to answer, “Shot to get us started?”

Zayn shook his head. He couldn’t go down that route. “Nah, let’s go. El meeting us there?”

“With the rest,” Louis agreed, pulling open the door for Zayn to go through. “It was a good idea, getting us all out. Didn’t think it’d ever come from you, but a good idea.”

“I have them sometimes.” Zayn’s fingers drummed on his leg, before he drew them into fists so he’d stop. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have anyone to impress. No one would be expecting anything from him. No one would be watching him. No one except Harry, and Zayn was okay with that.

He reminded himself of that about every minute as they walked east, dodging around all the other party-goers littering Houston. Maybe he should have had that shot, just to warm up. To ease himself into it. But no, alcohol only hurt in the long run, he parroted in his therapist’s voice, thinking of too many parties he was barely sober enough to remember. He could do this sober, or he would leave, and that would be okay. He could always leave.

It was a comforting thought, that he could leave. It got him to the club, where a line was pressed up against the building, narrow enough that people could squeeze by on their way elsewhere. Louis was just pushing up on to tip toes to survey the line when there was a “Hey!” and they in time for Liam to barrel around a corner and half-tackle Louis. Louis stumbled backwards.

“Watch it!” he snapped, but he was laughing too. “Get started already, Payno?”

“Gotta pregame,” Liam agreed. “Come on, the others are over here.” They followed him down the line, to where the two heads were bent into each other, one bright blonde and the other all dark curls.

Zayn couldn’t help but smile, at the sight of Harry wrapped up in his coat over his tight jeans and Chelsea boots. Too many memories, he thought, the smile dying a bit as he remembered other nights when Harry dressed like that, when Zayn had gone out despite the way it itched under his skin. When he had looked at Harry all dressed up like that and still couldn’t do it, thought it was better to stay home and let Harry do what he needed rather than try. But he could do this. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was here because he wanted to be, for Harry but not because of him, and he would be okay.

“Bout time you’re here,” Niall said with a laugh, once they got close enough to hear. “Freezing my fingers off, aren’t I?”

“Need a pint in you to warm you up,” Liam declared, slinging an arm around Niall’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go in.”

Harry was just looking at Zayn, with a look like he’d had on the other day—big eyes, something almost scared in them, something too complicated for Zayn to understand. He was here, though. He was here and he was sober and he could leave if he needed to and no one was watching and if he remembered that, he could still have fun.

“I need to wait for El,” Louis countered, checking his phone. “She wanted to stop by a friend’s for a bit, she’ll be here soon. I’m on the list, right Haz?” He paused. Harry was still looking at Zayn, and it wasn’t all heat there. “Harry?”

“What?” Harry shook his head. “Yeah, it should be fine. Ryan got us all in.”

“Great.” There was another pause, then Louis rolled his eyes. “Oh, go on, you all.”

“Yes dad!” Niall laughed, and he and Liam moved forward together. Zayn hung back as Harry went with them to talk to the bouncer, to take a few more breaths of cool, uncrowded air, patting at his pocket to make sure he had cigarettes with him. He tried not to—he had quit, really he had—but he might need them tonight. Anything to calm the nerves.

“Zayn, let’s go!” Liam called. Zayn inhaled a final time, then followed his friends into the club.

Somehow, Harry ended up next to Zayn as they waited for the coat check. He was still doing that thing, stealing sidelong glances at Zayn like he didn’t think Zayn would notice. He should do something about that, Zayn remembered. He was trying—there was a point to this. If he focused on that, on the goal, it would be better. Be easier.

So he tried out a teasing smile. He thought it went pretty well. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Harry shot back, immediately. He glanced away, then back at Zayn. “I just sort of thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I proposed this, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but…” Harry trailed off, shook his head. But Zayn hadn’t always followed through, was what Zayn knew he wasn’t saying. But sometimes he had bailed last minute, when the thought of it got to be too much and Zayn just—couldn’t. But he was here now, and he was handling it. He was here. He was following through, and Harry would see that. And now, when Harry looked back at Zayn, he was smiling. “Actually, do you have something on your face? Are you wearing eyeliner?”

Zayn shrugged, winked. He might have been. He liked how it looked. How it added another level of not-him tonight.

“Fuck,” Harry swore lowly. “God, Zayn.”

“What?” Zayn grinned innocently. He could do this. Flirting with Harry—that he knew. “You not like it, babe?”

“Your face isn’t fair,” Harry whined, then nudged at Zayn’s hip. “Your turn.”

Zayn dutifully checked his coat, then waited as Harry not only checked his coat but also made the girl fall at least halfway in love with him, all charming smiles and real compliments. Zayn probed at the sight, like he might at a sore bruise, but it didn’t hurt, not like it once would have. Which made sense, because they weren’t going out. But still, he liked to think of it as progress. As him learning to be better.

Then Harry unwrapped his coat, and Zayn took that back. Took all of it back.

“What?” Now it was Harry’s turn for a cheeky grin, as he watched Zayn look at him, in his sheer black top over jeans that made his legs go on for miles and ass look perfectly bitable.

“And you say I’m not fair,” Zayn retorted.

Harry grinned, sidled forward so he could hook his fingers into Zayn’s belt loops, tug them together, until all Zayn could see was that smug smirk framed by long curls Zayn had the sudden urge to tug on, to get his fingers in and make it sting so Harry remembered. “Only way to play, with you,” Harry murmured.

 Zayn grinned, reached up to cup Harry’s face with one hand. “Think you’re better at the game, babe.”

“You haven’t seen your face.” Harry turned his face into Zayn’s hand, never breaking eye contact with Zayn. Zayn could only lick his lips, could only press closer—

“Oi!” Niall yelled abruptly. “Come on, you two.”

“No dance floor makeouts until you’re on the dance floor,” Liam added.

Harry smirked again, not letting go of Zayn. “It’s an idea,” he whispered, bending down so that their foreheads almost met, so that Zayn was breathing in his air. His hips rolled, like he could already feel the beat, like he couldn’t help but stay pressed against Zayn’s body.

Zayn’s breath hitched. But it wasn’t just from the sheer sexuality of Harry, from the assault of him. “I’m not sure I’ll dance,” Zayn warned. He’d made it here, wasn’t that enough?

All at once, Harry was gone, his warmth a few feet away, his smile a little dimmed. “Yeah, figured as much,” he said, and Zayn didn’t even have time to think about that before he had loped forward to jump on Niall and Liam.

Breath in, breath out. Zayn stuck his fingers into his pocket to feel his cigarettes there. He could do this. He could dance, maybe even, because Harry wanted him to. He could show Harry—show himself—he could do this sober, that he could do this without freaking out. That he could be Harry’s boyfriend, despite Harry’s stubbornness.

So he followed everyone else up the stairs into the pounding club. Harry immediately grabbed Liam and disappeared into the crowd, but Niall headed to the bar, which sounded safer, so Zayn followed him.

It wasn’t much better at the bar, still crowded hip to shoulder, but at least no one was actively trying to dance with him, and no one was talking to him, and no one expected him to dance or talk with them. Niall ordered himself a beer, then glanced at Zayn, but Zayn shook his head. He’d do this sober. Alcohol wouldn’t help. Even if god, he wanted some, something to smooth him out and unclench his fingers and make him not want to run and hide and get away from all of these people.

Niall stuck around for a while, but eventually he made new friends and disappeared with them onto the dance floor (a few minutes later, Zayn thought he saw him in the DJ’s booth, and wasn’t surprised); Louis showed up with El on his arm, but only stuck around long enough to yell his hellos over the bass before they were on the floor as well.

By then, Zayn had managed to push himself to a corner table, where even if he was still standing and it was still too loud to think he at least had the table between him and most people and the wall at his back. It was better. It was always better in corners, he’d found; places where there wasn’t room to be surrounded, where only one or two people could talk to you at a time and they had to want to find you first.

He could see the others from here, or some of them—Liam was dancing with a brunette, his hands tight on her hips; Louis and El were wrapped around each other, so close together Zayn couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. They weren’t even moving with the music, they were just there, together, steady and easy and right.

Zayn glanced away from them, and somehow—of course—he found Harry. He could always find Harry, had always been able to find him in a crowd. Even if usually the answer was he was wherever the crowd was thickest, wherever the most people wanted to be, because he would be at the center of that. He was in his element here, always had been, laughing and flirting and dancing, maybe not with as much coordination as some other people but who cared about that when it came with Harry’s bright, cheeky smile or the way he brushed his hair out of his face?

He couldn’t help but keep watching Harry. It felt so horribly much like college again, at a party with Harry in the thick of things and him on the edge, pulled in by Harry’s orbit but kept out by this stupid, horrible fear, by the way his blood went cold at the thought of moving. Of just going up to someone and talking with them like Niall did, like Harry could; of dancing with people who would laugh and he would be so awkward and—

“Zayn!” Harry appeared in front of him. His face was flushed with exertion, his eyes bright; his shirt had come askew so more of his chest showed. Zayn just wanted to yank it straight again, to keep anyone else from seeing Harry like this—and didn’t that feel like college too, that useless possessiveness because Harry wasn’t his to hide. Because Harry didn’t want to hide, not like Zayn did. “Come dance with me!”

“Harry—” Zayn shook his head. Harry’s lip jutted out, and he grabbed Zayn’s wrist, tugging him out from behind the table.

“Please? It was your idea, you should dance!”

“I don’t—”

“You need to dance at least once,” Harry yelled. His voice sounded hoarse already. “I want to dance with you. Like we used to, remember? You used to dance with me.”

Zayn didn’t really remember—he had been blackout drunk. But he should be able to do this. He was supposed to be able to do this, was supposed to show Harry that this worked, that he could do the things Harry enjoyed because that was how they were in a real relationship. Because when Zayn nodded and let Harry pull him forward, Harry’s grin was bright as the strobe lights, like nothing had ever pleased him more, and it was enough to loosen the knot in his chest. He could do this. If Harry was here, if he could stay with Harry, he could. No one was watching. No one was looking. He was supposed to dance, it was what people did. If someone asked him to dance he could say he was with Harry. He would be fine.

Harry must have thought he was, because he got them into the middle of the dancers, then pulled Zayn into him, so they were moving together to the beat. It was easy enough, to move with Harry. To just bury his head in Harry’s neck and breathe in that familiar, if vodka-tinted, scent. And he knew how to move with Harry, he’d done this enough, his body remembered. Remembered how nothing felt as comfortable as Harry, how Harry eased his edges and made things make sense.

Harry’s hands were on his hips, keeping him close again, but then he turned his head and Zayn had to look up at him. Harry was beaming, and he must have been doing something right to make Harry that happy he could keep doing this, so he gave a tentative smile back.

It made Harry move his hands up to Zayn’s face again, to the back of his head, and then they were kissing, Harry’s lips hot on his. Zayn knew this, knew how to be good at that—but then they were gone.

“Are you drunk?” Harry asked, just loudly enough to be heard over the music.

Zayn shook his head. “No. Why?”

“You just always used to like to be.”

He’d always had to be. But he was sober now. Sober, and now he was remembering that, remembering each of his limbs, and there were people close to him and they were touching him on accident or not, hands brushing against his ass and back and shoulders and Harry was looking at him like he expected something and Zayn didn’t know what that was and people were looking at him they were watching him he must look so stupid like this with all his awkward limbs and lack of rhythm and he tried to breathe but there was too many people he couldn’t breathe properly Harry was so close and so was everyone else and—

“Fuck.” Zayn pushed back from Harry, trying to breathe. He needed room. He needed not to be around all these people. He needed space needed himself needed them to all stop.

“Zayn?” He could hardly hear Harry’s voice through the frantic beating of his head. He needed to get away. Needed to not be here.

“I’ve got to go.” He could go and it would be fine Harry would be fine he just needed to be away from everyone needed space and room to breathe, but Harry didn’t need to know that, Harry could still think he was what he needed. He tried to compose his face into something that didn’t show the panic. “I—you should have fun, yeah? I’ll—I need to go.”

He didn’t know if Harry said anything, didn’t know what else he was supposed to say, he just needed to get out of there. He shoved his way through the crowd, managed to make it to the door, then he was out in the stairwell and it was better except there were people pushing up and trying to get down and he just couldn’t—

“Hey.” It was to him, he thought, and he didn’t want to but he looked up. The coat check girl was standing there, mostly leaning out of her booth. “Hey, you okay?”

Zayn nodded, cleared his throat. Too many people, why was she talking to him—“Yeah. I just—can I have my coat?”

She tilted her head, studied him. “Are you drunk?”

“No?” Zayn knew the answer to that one, at least, easy answer right and wrong.

“High?”

“No.”

“Crazy?”

Zayn choked out a laugh. “Bit, probably.”

“Do you need some place to chill? You can sit in the back for a second, if you need to.”

That didn’t make sense that wasn’t allowed what was happening? “Why?”

She shrugged. “Because you look like you need it?”

The coat room would be small and dark and he’d be alone, and there wouldn’t even be the noise of outside. “Yeah, thanks.” He got out gratefully, and ducked inside when she opened the door.

He went to the back and sat down on the floor, bringing his knees up to his forehead, shutting his eyes tight. The coats back here muffled everything, even the people coming up the stairs a quiet murmur that he could push to the background.

Breathe in, breathe out. He knew this. He and his therapist had figured out how he should deal with this, even if he hadn’t had a panic attack like that in a while. Breath in, breath out. Focus on the breathing, and on being alone. On how no one needed him to do anything. On how he only needed to think about the limits of his skin.  On how no one was there but him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, breathing, being alone in his head, but it calmed eventually, his heartbeat slowing so he couldn’t hear it pounding anymore.

When he lifted his head, he found the coat check girl watching him. “You good?” she asked.

“Better.” Zayn tried for a smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Didn’t look like you should have gone outside by yourself, really.” She spun a little on her stool, smoothing out her big black peasant skirt over short legs. “What was up?”

“Just…” Zayn shook his head, grasping for the words. He’d never been able to say it, not really. Not even to his therapist. “People.”

“Right?” She nodded, like she knew what he meant. “They’re the worst.” She looked only a little older than his students, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, and her carefully cynical smile made him think that she didn’t know at all what he was talking about, but he smiled anyway, because she had helped and that was what you were supposed to do.

Especially as, “Can I stay here, for a bit more?” he asked. He didn’t want to go upstairs, didn’t want to go outside. Just wanted to stay here where it was warm and dark and safe. “Just until I can face it.”

“Sure. Not exactly packed.” She did a full circle on her stool, then caught at the counter to take someone’s coats. When she was done, she swiveled to face him again. “So, was that your boyfriend earlier?”

“Earlier?”

“When you were checking your coat.” She laughed when he gave her an incredulous look. “I remember the good looking guys who come by. And your boyfriend’s…” she shrugged, blushing a bit. Zayn knew how she felt.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Zayn tipped his head back so it could rest against the wall. And now he wouldn’t ever be, because he’d seen Zayn’s limits. How Zayn could never be really what he needed, no matter how much he tried. He still couldn’t do this. Still couldn’t be there for Harry like he needed.

“Really? You were about to jump each other.”

“It’s complicated.” He pursed his lips. He hated that phrase. It made it sound like everything else was so simple.

“Always is, isn’t it?” She gave a world weary sigh. “But you two are cute together. I approve.” She laughed before he could say anything. “’Cause obviously you care what I think.”

“I agree,” Zayn said. “He doesn’t.”

“Really? But you’re so hot!”

It startled a laugh out of Zayn. “Thanks. He thinks we won’t work together. It’s why I’m here.” Zayn sighed. “Guess I didn’t prove otherwise.”

He had wanted to. He had tried, damn, he had. But some things he couldn’t change, not with all the treatment in the world. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe he shouldn’t bother with this, with trying to change Harry’s mind. Maybe he’d just push Harry away again.

“Aw, that’s cute,” she drawled. “My boyfriend wouldn’t come here if you paid him.” She shrugged. “But it’s not, like, serious or anything. It’s cute that you love him enough to come. Even if you did have a panic attack, so maybe it wasn’t a great idea.”

“Love?” Zayn blinked to look at her. “Is that what it is?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have induced a panic attack otherwise. But then again, I’m not a very good person, so I wouldn’t know.”

Zayn chuckled again. She was easy, somehow, like talking to his students. “I’m sure you’re a good person.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you let me in here.”

She smiled, the sort of small smiles teenaged boys sometimes got when they were caught out reading novels or being sensitive, when Zayn praised the poetry he sometimes had them write. “Well, I’m not an awful person. I’m—”

The bell rang, so she spun around. When she came back again, she reached over him to get a coat Zayn recognized. “Hey,” she told him, “Your not-boyfriend’s here. He’s in a hurry, too.”

“A hurry?” There was no reason for Harry to be in a hurry. Unless he was in a hurry to bring someone home, unless he had found someone who could actually dance with him and didn’t have panic attacks and—

No. Zayn cut off those thoughts firmly, his nails digging into the skin of his forearm to ground him. He wouldn’t be that person. He would go check on Harry, and if he was with someone that might break his heart but it’d be okay. It wouldn’t break him.

He forced himself to his feet, and followed the girl out of the back to the counter.

Harry was standing at the window, his hair mussed more than Zayn could have made it, his fingers drumming against the table. He did look like he was in a hurry, even more so with the speed with which he glanced up when he heard her coming.

“Thanks—Zayn?” His eyes widened when he saw Zayn. “Fuck, Zayn! You’re here?”

“Yeah?” Just seeing Harry made it easier, somehow, seeing Harry and the empty space around him. It wasn’t like upstairs, with everyone pressing into him that sea of people. It was just Harry. Just Harry, alone. Without anyone better than Zayn.  

Breath in, breath out. He could do this, now. He could leave this safe room with all its coats and just one girl who didn’t expect anything from him, as long as he was with Harry, and they weren’t going back upstairs. So he turned to her. “Thanks, really.”

“No problem.” She grinned. It made her look older, somehow, without the put-upon maturity. “You heading out?”

Zayn glanced over at Harry. Harry’s fingers were still drumming, and he shifted from foot to foot, his gaze fixed unerringly on Zayn. “Yeah, think so.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry inserted. He gave the coat check girl one of his blinding, impossible to resist grins, the one he only used when he wanted to hide whatever he was feeling. “If you want to stay—”

Zayn snorted. Stay. Yeah, he clearly wanted to do that. “I’ll go. But you’re a lifesaver,” he smiled his thanks at her, then unlatched the door to let himself out. The instant he was out, Harry’s hand latched around his wrist, hard, like if he let him go Zayn would float away. “Hey,” he murmured, leaning into Harry’s side. This was good, Harry being here for him to anchor himself in.  It was only when Harry had pulled away that he had lost it.

Harry didn’t reply, just took his coat back from the girl with another one of those wide smiles that was wider than it ever was when he meant it. He didn’t let go of Zayn to put it on, just draped it over his arm, and turned to look at Zayn.

“What? Aren’t we going home?” Zayn asked. Harry sighed.

“And his coat,” he told the coat check girl, rolling his eyes. She giggled, and Zayn made an apologetic face. Right. Coat. He should have remembered that.

“Thanks again.” He took the coat, waited as Harry tucked some money into the tip jar. Then Harry was tugging him outside, into the crisp air. It almost felt like snow again, even though it was edging out of February, their breath turning to mist in front of them as Harry pulled him along.

“What’s up?” Zayn asked. Even when Harry was desperate for it, he usually wasn’t this abrupt. “Where are we going?”

Harry didn’t answer, so he tried a different tack. “You could have stayed, I wanted you to have fun. I didn’t—”

“Shut up.” It came out harsh, clearly audible over the cabs rumbling by, over the people pushing past on their way places.

Harry was never harsh, though. Harry never got irritated at him, even when he was forgetful, even when he didn’t want to do things. Although apparently not when he ran away, when he just couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d finally realized how it wasn’t his fault, what had happened. How it had been inevitable, because even now when he was trying so hard, when he was steady in his own skin, Zayn still couldn’t be the person Harry wanted.

“Are you mad at me?”

Harry stopped, yanking Zayn to a halt as well. “Am I mad?” he demanded. Pedestrians were dodging around them, making annoyed noises, they were getting close again and they were looking and watching—Breath in, breath out. Zayn focused on Harry’s eyes. “Am I mad?”

“Yes?” It sounded rhetorical, but Zayn wasn’t entirely sure.

“Fuck, Zayn!” Harry was almost yelling, his eyes watering with either the cold or tears. “You disappeared! I couldn’t find you inside and you weren’t outside and you weren’t answering your phone and I didn’t—” He gave a quick, ragged breath, then pulled Zayn closer, so he could wrap himself around him, his hands running all over Zayn like he was making sure he was there. “Something could have happened and it would have all been my fault for making you come and—”

“Harry.” Zayn smoothed down Harry’s hair, rubbed over the bare skin at his neck, where goosebumps were forming. He wasn’t mad. He was worried. It was better, even if it meant he had noticed Zayn failing. “Hey, Harry, I’m fine, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were calling.”

“Obviously.” Harry choked it out, but then he was pulling away again, and Zayn didn’t know how to deal with this, with how now he looked angry again. “You were too busy flirting with the coat check girl. Because you don’t want to dance with me, but her you want to talk with.”

“Want?” Zayn had to laugh. “What do you mean, I didn’t want to dance with you? I did! I was!”

“Yeah, and then you weren’t. Then you were flirting with her.”

“I wasn’t flirting I was—” Hiding sounded so ugly, so young, so cowardly. He couldn’t just say it, couldn’t prove Harry right. “I just—it wasn’t—” Why could he never figure out what to say? Never find the right words, not when it counted, not for all the books he read, because he always messed this up, could never explain what he needed to tell Harry it wasn’t him. “I couldn’t, Harry. I just—I couldn’t.”

“Right.” Harry shook his head, let go of Zayn to run a hand through his hair. “But you’re safe. That’s what matters.” He said it with the air of someone repeating a mantra, of someone reminding themself.

“I’m not a child,” Zayn objected. “I can take care of myself.” He had. There was that much, at least. He’d been overwhelmed, but instead of having his panic attack there and going into a spiral he had dealt with it. At least he’d learned that much.

“Sure.” Harry smirked at him, then pulled him close again, so Zayn could feel the heat of his chest through the sheer fabric. “But I can take care of you better.”

“You do at that,” Zayn agreed, twining his fingers into Harry’s hair.

He thought he heard, in the moment before their lips met, something that sounded like, “Better than anyone else,” but then Harry’s hands were on his ass and they were in the middle of the street, and wrapped in Harry Zayn couldn’t even care.

Was this love? Not caring about anything else, just leaning on Harry, into Harry, letting Harry take care of him? It wasn’t like last time, wasn’t like that heated possession, that burning thing that had overwhelmed everything and swallowed him whole. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be anywhere other than this, that he could feel Harry’s warmth seeping into him, that with Harry here he didn’t feel anxious, he didn’t wonder what people were thinking of him, he didn’t forget anything. He just was here, all here, in Harry’s arms and his lips and the cold wrapped around them but not touching them, like the heat between them was enough. He could do this, for this heat, this ease and this warmth and Harry. He’d do it. Maybe he couldn‘t do a club, maybe that wasn’t what he was made for, but Harry was still here with him, hadn’t run away. Hadn’t found someone else, even though Zayn had failed. Screw everything else. This was good, and this was right, and Zayn wouldn’t let go, not this time.

“Let’s go home,” Zayn murmured into Harry’s ear, filled with all that warmth, and Harry nodded, letting his head fall into Zayn’s neck, like he felt it too. “Come on, babe. Let’s go home.”


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be up next Sunday, 2/22. Sorry for the delay!

Harry woke slowly. He had a vague memory of cold last night, of panic and fear and hurt, but he was warm as he woke, blankets heavy over him and an arm thrown over his waist and the feel of soft skin against his, and he was pretty sure he never wanted to move.

Opening his eyes didn’t help that, because when he opened his eyes he could just see Zayn, his cheek smushed against the pillow. It should have looked silly, but it was Zayn, so it just looked—looked like Harry wanted to smooth his hair away from his face and kiss his forehead, and turn his neck so he wouldn’t get a crick in it and then burrow back into him, to wrap himself in Zayn so that he would never have that heart-pounding moment when he _couldn’t find him_.

But he was safe, Harry reminded himself again, pressed his face into Zayn’s shoulder just to breathe in the scent of him. He was safe, and Harry had checked last night after they got in, had tasted every inch of Zayn’s skin to make sure. To make sure, and to ensure that Zayn would end up a mess under him, writhing and sobbing and panting Harry’s name, just Harry’s, not that coat check girl who he’d rather be with than Harry. Because of course he wouldn’t want to dance with Harry. The world had made a painful sort of sense again with that. He didn’t want to dance with Harry, he didn’t want to be there with Harry. Everything was as it always was.

So Harry didn’t just fall back into Zayn, go back to sleep. Instead, he slid out of bed to go take a shower.

He must have made more noise than he thought getting up, though, because he was midway through washing his hair when the door opened.

“Don’t think we have the coordination for shower sex,” he called out. “Or that there’s enough room in here.” There was barely enough room just for him in there.

There was a grunt that Harry took as acknowledgment—he should have known better than to expect Zayn to actually speak words in the morning, even if Harry was pretty sure he hadn’t drunk anything last night, weirdly—then the tap running.

“And we are not close enough for me to hear you piss,” Harry added, just in case. Another grunt, then the clear sound of brushing teeth, so Harry shrugged and finished showering. He was just doing a final rinse when there was the sound of the door closing, so he grabbed the pink towel hanging next to Zayn’s green one, and stepped out of the shower to dry himself off. He’d go home, he thought. Go home and write some songs that would only be a little sad. It’d be fine. They’d be fine, because Zayn was here and okay even though Harry would have known that last night if he had answered his fucking phone.

He toweled off his hair, then wrapped his towel around his waist to brush his teeth. He always liked showering at Zayn’s, even if there was no room at all, because afterwards he always smelled like Zayn, could carry that with him for a while.

He brushed, spat, replaced his toothbrush next to Zayn’s in the cup, to the sounds of Zayn puttering in the kitchen, probably making coffee. He picked up the mouthwash, because his mouth still felt fuzzy after drinking last night—and managed to knock over the bottle of pills sitting next to it, because that was Harry’s life.

Harry sighed, but he bent over to pick it up. There were only a few left, he noted idly. “Zayn!” he called, “You need to remember to refill your pills!”

“Which ones?” Zayn didn’t bother to shout. Sometimes Harry forgot just how small his place was. Or maybe Harry was just finely attuned to Zayn’s voice.

“The…” Harry flipped over the bottle to check. “Zoloft?” His fingers closed reflexively over the bottle, covering up the name he didn’t want to see. His voice was barely steady as he called back, “Zayn, why do you have depression meds?”

“They were prescribed to me?”

It was supposed to make Harry laugh, he supposed, and maybe normally he would, but this was—he couldn’t joke about this. Not if something was wrong with Zayn, if he was ill in some way and Harry didn’t know. How was Harry supposed to make sure he was all right if he didn’t know?

“Zayn?” he repeated, edging into the kitchen without bothering to get dressed any more than the towel. Zayn looked over his shoulder from where he was getting out two mugs, a teabag in one. When he saw Harry, he smiled, softly, like it somehow grew out of his morning haze, like it was part of the general softness of him this morning, in the pajama pants he must have pulled on, with his hair messy and unstyled around his face, even the remnants of last night’s eyeliner smudged into shadows that should have looked sloppy but instead just looked artistic, looked like Harry wanted to kiss each of his eyes and then the rest of his face. But Harry couldn’t fall for that softness. “Why were you prescribed depression meds?”

Zayn blinked. “I’m not depressed, Haz. Don’t worry.”

“But you have these?” Harry held up the bottle in a not-quite steady hand. “I’m not—I know what Zoloft is for, Zayn. Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine.” When Harry didn’t move, couldn’t move, Zayn sighed. “It is, Harry. You don’t have to worry.” He reached out to take the pill bottle. Harry…couldn’t quite manage to let go. It wasn’t fair, Harry knew it wasn’t fair, because Zayn wasn’t required to tell him anything and especially not this, this was confidential and Harry wasn’t anything, just a friend, but—it hit him deep. “I’m—like, I’m okay.”

“Then why are you on medication?” Harry demanded. Medication meant it wasn’t nothing.

Zayn shrugged. “It’s—” he opened and closed his mouth, took a deep breath. “It’s something, like, something to make sure I’m okay through the day, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” Harry’s breath hissed out. He shouldn’t be angry, but he hated this about Zayn, always had, how he just wouldn’t fucking tell Harry important things like this. “Why do you need drugs to get you through the day?”

“I—” Zayn glanced away, biting at his lip. “I just—it makes it easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

“Just the—like—fuck.” Another deep breath. “Like, the talking to people. Groups of people. You know,” he said again, like this was something Harry knew, like Harry expected the medication, expected the way Zayn was looking at him with his soft eyes, his eyelashes just making his eyes look even bigger, almost plaintive. “All the stuff that’s hard for me.”

“Hard for you?”

“Hell.” Zayn bit his lip, his face screwing up like it was in pain. “Yeah. You know. The…” he shook his hands, shivered, like that meant anything. “I mean. The, like, the social anxiety stuff.”

“Social anxiety.” Harry let go of the bottle at last, because he needed to grab onto the counter. “Like—actual anxiety?”

“That’s what my therapist says.” Zayn smiled, like he was joking, like he was okay once he said the words. But Harry—Harry felt like he had suddenly been hit by a tidal wave.

“Therapist?” He repeated. “How long have you had a therapist?”

“Since…I don’t know, five years?” Zayn shrugged. “No, six, because it was my senior year, when I realized I wanted to teach. Although I don’t see her much anymore.”

“Six years!” That meant—not until after, until after they had broken up, but still. It was just after. Just after, and now Zayn was on medication and saw a therapist and Harry had known he had broken him but he hadn’t known—“I—it wasn’t because of—”

“No.” That came out firm, the sort of surety Zayn usually had when talking about books, about words or facts, and he stepped forward to cup Harry’s chin with his jaw. “No, babe. I’ve had this—like, it’s been going on since way before you. If anything you were good, yeah? Made me realize I needed—that I had, like, already messed something good up because I couldn’t be—couldn’t be the right person for you. And if I was going to teach, I couldn’t do that.”

“Couldn’t.” The word rang in Harry’s ears. Zayn had said that word, did say that word, a lot. Couldn’t. Couldn’t go out, couldn’t dance, couldn’t party. Harry’d always taken it as the same as wouldn’t. As in, didn’t want. But Zayn wasn’t that careless with words. “So when you said couldn’t, last night, when you ran out of there—”

Zayn bit his lip, and looked down, his hand dropping from Harry. “I thought I could handle it. I really did, Haz. I thought I could, I wanted to. I can do smaller things fine; I haven’t had an attack like that for years.”

“You weren’t running away?”

“Of course I was.” Zayn shook his head, dropped back to run a hand angrily through his hair. “I was running away to hide in my dark little corner, because—I just, I—there were people, and I didn’t know, I look so stupid when I dance and—it felt—I just couldn’t.”

“But you always used to!” He had! Harry knew he had. They’d used to dance, pressed together in frat houses and shitty college clubs, whenever Harry had managed to get Zayn out, their bodies moving smoothly together like it was where they were meant to be. When Zayn would hold Harry so tight like he couldn’t think of anywhere better. “I remember, you—”

“Were shitfaced the whole time.” Zayn filled in, bleakly. The water boiler dinged; he ignored it. “Come on, Harry. You remember. I was smashed at parties. It was the only way I could, sometimes.”

“Yeah, but…so was everyone.” It came out weakly, because Zayn had always been drunk, but Harry—Harry hadn’t cared. Harry’d just loved having him there, having him looking at Harry like he burned for him. Loved the way everyone had looked at them too, if he was honest, how good they looked together when Zayn had downed his last shot and grabbed Harry to wrap around him, whispering what he was going to do to Harry in his ear, or let Harry do to him. How hadn’t he noticed Zayn was in pain that whole time? “We all were drunk, it was college.”

“Yeah, but I was self-medicating.” Zayn let out a long breath, then turned to pour himself coffee. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Harry. I’ve got a handle on it. You don’t have to worry. I’m totally functional, now.”

Some other time, Harry might have laughed. Not worry about Zayn. He’d never been able to do that. But right now he couldn’t find that laughter, not when all he could think of was all those times he’d dragged Zayn out, when he’d made ultimatums or pouted or been so angry that Zayn wouldn’t come with him.

“So when you said you couldn’t go out, back in college…you didn’t just not want to?”

Zayn’s shoulders hunched. Harry wanted to go soothe that wince away, to kiss at the place where his hair curled at his neck until he relaxed. To grab him and shake him and yell at him for not telling Harry he was hurting him. To shake himself for hurting Zayn, for not noticing enough even when he was supposed to be the one person who would always notice.

“I…I dunno, I can’t always describe it, just…sometimes it sounds like the worst thing in the world, to go into someplace with people I don’t know. It makes my skin crawl.”

Harry’s fingers tightened over the counter. He didn’t—how much had he missed? How much hadn’t he seen because he’d been too convinced Zayn just didn’t want him? Had he missed other panic attacks? “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.” Zayn’s shoulders twitched again, then he turned. The second he did, his brow furrowed. “Oh, Harry. It really isn’t. You didn’t do anything.”

“I did, though!” When Zayn lifted a hand, Harry winced away. He couldn’t—Zayn shouldn’t touch him. He’d hurt him worse than he’d even known, again and again and again, and then—and it hadn’t been—Zayn hadn’t not wanted to be with him. It hadn’t been Zayn ignoring him, hadn’t been him pushing Harry away it had just been this, and Harry hadn’t known hadn’t seen and then he had—he’d hurt him even worse. “I made you go out and I—”

“I could have said no. I did say no, when it was too bad.” Zayn’s face was very serious. “You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to, Haz. Not then and not now. I can—I’m fine, now.”

“You could have told me.” How couldn’t he have? How couldn’t he have known?

“And tell you what?” Zayn’s lips twisted. “I knew you were going to break up with me eventually for someone better, but I didn’t want to hurry that along.”

This time, Harry did snort. He would have said that was ridiculous, how he’d been so wrapped up in Zayn and his eyes and cheekbones and his cleverness and the quiet refuge of him, that he couldn’t have looked elsewhere if he tried—except he had. He had and not even for a real reason, just because he couldn’t look past himself and how Zayn hadn’t been looking at him like he wanted him to to see Zayn was hurting too.

“Harry.” Zayn was looking at him now, his head tilted like it got when he was concerned but didn’t quite know why. “No, don’t—You don’t have to worry, I told you. This is one thing I’ve been managing on my own.” Another wry smile. “I don’t even forget my pills or anything. It’s not a problem anymore, it doesn’t matter, not this time.”

Of course. Zayn could do this, Zayn didn’t need Harry, not like Harry needed Zayn, because Zayn could take care of himself and he didn’t need Harry around to hurt him again and again and again. “I need to go.”

“What?” Zayn stuttered, and there Harry was again, hurting him. “What? Why?”

Harry spun on his heel, hurried back to the bedroom, and Zayn followed, hovering in the doorway as Harry pulled on last night’s jeans and shirt. The walk of shame would be good for him. Because this—this was a walk of shame. It wasn’t going home from his boyfriend’s, because even when Zayn had been his boyfriend Harry hadn’t been able to be a good boyfriend, and he wouldn’t hurt Zayn like that again. He loved him enough for that.

“Harry,” Zayn said again, as Harry stood up, shoved his cell phone into his pocket. He had both hands clutched around his mug, and he was chewing on his lower lip again. He looked unsure, if not young, smaller than usual. “Harry—I promise, it doesn’t matter. It’s just some anxiety, like, you knowing doesn’t change it.”

“It does for me.”

“You—” Zayn swallowed. “I get it.” And oh, he looked like he had on that bench, that blank overwhelmed expression, like he was about to walk away again. Like Harry had cut his heart out again. “I’ll see you at rehearsal Tuesday, then.”

Harry would do anything, anything, rather than let that expression stay on his face. He needed to go, needed to process—but he needed to do this first. But just because he hurt Zayn before didn’t mean he would do it again, ever. That was the whole point. “See you Monday,” he corrected, framing Zayn’s face with his hands. “Refill your pills.”

He kissed Zayn slowly, savoring the taste of coffee and mint from his toothpaste. When he pulled away, Zayn’s eyes were closed, a smile lingering on his lips.

Harry left with that expression fixed in his brain. But all he could think of was all the ones before, was the expression on Zayn’s face in the club when he had pushed him away, the wide-eyed panic, and all of the other times he must have missed, when Zayn had been afraid and he hadn’t noticed.

\---

_Phoebe: The poetry isn’t working! Nothing’s changed._

_Dorothy: Give it time. We haven’t brought out the big guns._

_Wanda: I still think we need to do it both ways._

_Phoebe: But Mr. Styles would, like, sing to Mr. Malik. And we can’t pretend we’re him._

_Tim: We might be able to find a recording…_

_Carlos: Or trick him into making one._

_Dorothy: Right, what, secretly record him singing a song? Be serious, Carlos. This isn’t a joke. Some of us actually care about people._

_Carlos: I am serious, D.A. I like them too, and I could get that song if I wanted to, and I’m just as invested in this shit as you are. So fuck off._

_Tim: …Carlos? You okay, man?_

_Ralphie: Carlos?_

_Phoebe: Carlos?_

_Dorothy: It’s fine. We can go on without him. We don’t need him._

_Keisha: D.A._

_Dorothy: What?_

_Keisha: Dorothy Anne._

_Dorothy: Yes, Keisha?_

_Keisha: Don’t worry, babe. We have ice cream._

_Dorothy: Why would I need ice cream? We have plans to make._

_Keisha: And rom-coms._

_Dorothy: I don’t like rom coms._

_Keisha: That’s probably your problem. It’s okay. We’ll save you._

_Dorothy: I don’t need saving! I’m fine. If Carlos wants to be pissy it’s fine. I don’t know why he’s angry. He was making a joke of my plans!_

_Keisha: Oh, babe, it’s okay. You know he loves your research._

_Dorothy: Stop it, Keisha! Really._

_Phoebe: Keisha, let it be. We’ll be over later, D.A. We can plan as much as you want._

_Dorothy: See, Phoebe gets it. That’s what’s important_

_Keisha: What’s important is you and Carlos fucking talking after eight years of this. But no. What do I know? I’ve only been here watching you the whole time._

_Phoebe: Let it go, Keesh. Knowing isn’t the problem here._

_\---_

“So, Hester Prynne.” Zayn tapped his copy of _The Scarlet Letter_ on the desk. Half the sophomores in the room jumped; the other half quieted down. He didn’t blame them for their inattention, really, with five more minutes until the end of the day, but he wanted to at least start on it. “We don’t have much time, but throw me some of your first impressions of her.”

“Slut!” A voice called from the back. Snickers rose up through the room; Zayn rolled his eyes and smiled.

“Really?” he asked. “Why?”

“Because that’s what the book’s about.” Jason protested, the front two legs of his chair coming down as he leaned forward. “About her sleeping with some guy and everyone calling her a slut.”

“Mm-hm,” Zayn hummed. “So everyone who has sex is a slut?”

That got laughs, as he thought it would. Ending on sex was always a good note.

“No,” Shelley was quiet, but usually pretty insightful; Zayn gestured to her to go on. “No, she was judged because of adultery, not sex.”

“And adultery is…” he prompted.

“Cheating.”

“Right.” He smiled at her, and she grinned back, her braces bright pink. “So,” he said to the rest of the class, “We have one word, that might or might not be accurate. Anything else?”

“Kind of a bitch,” someone else added, along with, “brave,” “hot,” and “rebellious.”

“Good.” Zayn wrote them on the board. No one was copying them down, but it wasn’t really necessary; he’d write them out tomorrow when they picked up. “Okay, now give me some words for Chillingsworth.”

“Horrible!”

“Ugly.”

“Smart.”

“Cruel.”

“Evil.”

“Okay.” Zayn cut off the barrage, jotting them down too. There were giggles behind him; glancing over his shoulder, he saw three girls in back huddled together, sliding a note between them. He checked the time. Three til. Not worth that battle. “And Dimmesdale?”

“Pussy!”

“Coward.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Good-hearted.”

“Stupid.”

“Good, good.” Zayn studied the board. “So, who’s the villain here? Carrie?”

Carrie glanced up from her nails. “The husband?”

“Everyone agree?” Nods all around, except for one boy midway back, who shook his dark head. “Okay, Chris. Why not?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Chris mumbled. “She cheated on him.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t have to be an ass about it,” Carrie retorted. “He was gross anyway, he couldn’t expect that she wouldn’t.”

Now there was a wonderful way of looking at relationships. Zayn settled back against his desk to watch.

“But they’re married,” Chris repeated. “Even if he is old and ugly. She was the adulterer, not him.”

“Yeah, but look what happened to her! He could have let it go, or left her,” Brent added from his seat next to Carrie. “Instead he needed to get revenge, in the most dickish way possible.”

“But to be a villain you have to commit a crime, and he hasn’t yet,” Chris insisted.

“Okay,” Zayn broke in, before anyone could get hurt. “So is it Hester, or Chillingsworth?”

“Dimmesdale,” Shelley suggested. Zayn raised his eyebrows, held back his grin, and let her finish.

“Oh? Why?”

“Because he’s the cause of it, and he’s letting Hester take all the blame. He’s a hypocrite, right?” She waited for Zayn to nod, but he stayed still. He wanted her to ride this wave out. “And that’s what Hawthorne’s trying to get at. So I think he’s the villain here.”

“That’s—” The bell rang; Zayn managed not to jump. “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he said, as the kids leapt out of their seats, “Read the next chapter. We’ll pick up our discussion here.”

He sat down at his desk as the kids filed out, jotting down his notes on what they’d covered today, and some things he wanted to add tomorrow, based on their discussion. It hadn’t been bad, for being rushed. A lot better than last period, where the freshmen, either because of the melting snow or the fact that Thursday was almost Friday or some other sort of madness, had decided to not pay attention at all. Zayn rubbed at his temples just thinking about it. He wished there was some way to make the ship chapter of the Odyssey less boring.

“You okay?” Zayn smiled as he looked up at Harry, his hands dropping down to the table.

“Yeah. Just, like, freshmen.”

“They were bad for me too. Spring madness?” Harry dropped his gym bag by the door, then drifted farther into the room. He was fiddling with something in his pocket, and the other hand kept on playing with the ends of his hair.

“It’s not spring yet.” Zayn glanced outside. Things were melting, but slowly, so everything was just grey and gross.

“Yeah.” Harry shifted to his other foot, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Maybe spring madness was getting to him, too.

“What’s up?”

“Niall was saying we should go get drinks, so I got the job of telling you.”

Zayn glanced at his desk. He didn’t have that much work, and he could get the rest of it done over the weekend. He could—

“You don’t have to!” Harry rushed on. “If you don’t want to, I mean, if it’s too much, you don’t have to. We’ll understand. It’ll be fine. Whatever you need.”

And there it was. Zayn sighed. He’d been like this all week, tentative and pulling back. This was the opposite of what Zayn had wanted. Now instead of thinking Zayn could be the person he needed, Harry was worrying about him, sure he was weak and fragile and would never be—couldn’t be his boyfriend. “I’m fine,” he said, as firmly as he could. “Sounds good. When are we meeting?”

“Nowish?” Harry shrugged. He still looked worried. “Liam said he had some stuff to finish up, but other than that we’re good.”

“So I can get some grading done?” He had those tests to grade…

“If you think you can stop in ten minutes,” Harry teased, a dimple appearing. Zayn hadn’t seen that in a while; it felt nice, to see Harry smiling at him again, like he meant it. Like Zayn didn’t have to be anything but himself for Harry to like. “So, no.”

“Spoilsport.” Zayn stuck out his tongue. Harry stuck his tongue out back, but didn’t reply, so Zayn started putting his things away.

“Zayn,” Harry said suddenly. Zayn glanced up. Harry was closer now, though still on the other side of the desk. He’d been that far away since Friday, and it was starting to wear on Zayn. He didn’t—he didn’t like it when Harry was that far away, when he wasn’t there for Zayn to hold and cuddle with, when he wasn’t there to remind Zayn to take his gloves and to make him laugh and to center him. “I wanted to say, too—you’ve got to stop.”

“Stop?” Zayn looked at his hands, but he was just putting a folder full of grading into his briefcase. “Stop what?”

“With the poems.” Harry seemed to think he was making sense, or something, as he spoke, looking down at where he was fiddling with the slip of computer paper in his hands. “It’s sweet, really, but it’s not helping. We’re not in a relationship, and you don’t do stuff like that for what we are, and you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Zayn shook his head. “Poetry?”

Now Harry was beet red, and really wasn’t looking at Zayn. “Someone’s been leaving poetry in my room—love poetry. I figured it was from you, but, it wasn’t?” He gave Zayn a big, wide-eyed look, like he was asking for something. Zayn would give it if he knew what it was, he would—but he had no idea what Harry was asking for.

“No.” It was a good idea, though. Zayn should have thought of that. “No, I have no idea. Maybe you have a secret admirer?”

“I do have a lot of admirers,” Harry agreed, grinning. Then the grin died as he looked at the paper. “It just—seemed like something you’d do. You like poetry.”

“I could.” He should have. Should have looked to that for wooing, to show Harry that he could do this right. He stood, walked around the desk so he wasn’t so separate from Harry, so he could put his hand on Harry’s cheek. “I fear no fate, for you are my fate my sweet,” He’d meant for it to be teasing, but somehow it wasn’t, not when Harry’s eyes were wide and so very green, his lips so pink, and Zayn could hear his heartbeat thudding in his head. “I want no world, for beautiful, you are my world” Zayn’d always been good at this, at memorizing words, at finding his feelings in other people’s words, in their templates. In finding his own truth in a poet’s lines.

And this was truth, he realized. Even if it wasn’t his words, it was his truth. His truth, because, “And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant.” His hand was still on Harry’s cheek, and somehow it had gone quiet, so the only thing in the entire world was the words echoing between them, the words Zayn had never found a way to say before. He finished on a breath, a sigh, or maybe he wasn’t breathing at all. “And whatever a sun will always sing is you”

“Zayn,” Harry said, his mouth opening on a soft breath. He was so rarely speechless, but he didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to, when Zayn’s hand was cupping his cheek, when his eyes were so soft. When for once Zayn didn’t need the emotion in the room explained.

The silence caught, held, like the room was holding its breath. How hadn’t Zayn noticed? How hadn’t he known? He’d known what he wanted, that he wanted Harry as his, his boyfriend or whatever, for Harry to admit what was between them was good, but he hadn’t known this was what was between them. This was love, the warmth and need and everything he felt for Harry. Not the twisted jealousy and possession and fear of before, but this, easy and steady and sure, how Harry took care of him and he took care of Harry in return. He was in love with Harry. He was _in love_ with Harry.

“Cummings was always a little above me,” Harry broke the silence at last. It was supposed to be a joke, Zayn thought. Might have been one, if Harry had smiled. “Should have gone with something simpler.”

“Fine.” Zayn smiled this time, because Harry was here and Harry was his, or almost, even if he didn’t love Zayn back. He had this, he would have this. He’d just have to do more. Be more persuasive. Make Harry see—more. “I have more.”

“Zayn—”

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,” Zayn started, pitching his voice low. This he knew how to do between them. He might not have recognized love, but he did now. And this was love too, Neruda’s desire and heat, the magnetism that brought Zayn sidling closer to Harry as he spoke. “Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt—”

“Zayn,” Harry cut him off again, and Zayn kissed him before he could say anything else.

Harry’s lips were soft beneath his, and Zayn swallowed down the breath of air Harry let out before grabbing at his hair to bring him closer, and because Harry loved it when he tugged on his hair. Sure enough, Harry moaned, and his mouth opened—but the hand that settled onto Zayn’s waist was so light Zayn could barely feel it, and his other hand hung by his side rather than doing what it should, which was touching Zayn.

Zayn pulled away, huffing out a breath. It had been like this when he’d kissed Harry on Monday too, Harry perfectly there but he hadn’t touched Zayn, until Zayn had actually moved Harry’s hand to his ass. And even then it’d had been different, tentative like it hadn’t been between them since the very beginning, and even then not for long. It was weird, and disconcerting, and Zayn didn’t want that. Zayn wanted Harry, his Harry, the boy he’d fallen for twice now.

“I’m not going to break,” he murmured, his hands still in Harry’s hair. “I’m not broken.”

“I know.” But Harry smoothed Zayn’s hair back without hardly touching him at all. “But—I don’t want to hurt you, Zayn.”

Zayn barely managed to contain his eye roll. “You won’t.” Harry didn’t look convinced, his gaze darting to the side, and Zayn did roll his eyes this time. He wanted Harry, wanted to feel if it was different when he knew he loved him, wanted to give back some of the things Harry’d given him.

So he grinned, and tugged Harry closer, until they were flush against each other and he could whisper in Harry’s ear. “Want me to show you how not fragile I am?”

“What do you—” Zayn kissed him again, but he didn’t bother with slow this time, or sweet. He’d been kissing Harry on and off for seven years now, and he knew exactly how to make Harry moan, how to make him shudder against Zayn and how to make his hips jerk into Zayn, and Zayn’d never been afraid to play dirty. He trailed his lips from Harry’s lips to his neck, tasting the hint of stubble, the strong line of his jaw, until he could suck into Harry’s neck right above his collar. He’d leave a mark this time, he decided. Not to claim. Just because he wanted to see how Harry’s skin looked bruised by his lips.

“Fuck, Zayn.” Harry’s fingers clenched on his shoulders. “Zayn, shit, stop.”

Zayn gave Harry’s neck a glare, then let Harry go enough so that he could look him in the eyes, though he stayed pressed against him. “What?”

Harry looked far gone already, his lips swollen, his hair a mess, his pupils blown wide. He’d never looked better, in Zayn’s opinion. “The door’s open.”

Zayn blinked, then—right. That. That was a concern. “Wait here,” he ordered, putting a hint of a growl in it that had Harry swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the knot of his tie. Zayn watched it, watched the bruise forming next to it, until Harry cleared his throat.

He crossed the room, shut the door, locked it. Then he turned back around. Harry was leaning against the desk, all long legs and solid body and flushed face, and he looked up and his eyes met Zayn’s. Zayn was across the room in a second, and this time Harry’s hands were bruisingly tight on his shoulders as he kissed him hard and fierce and fast. They’d do slow some time, Zayn swore, later it would be slow and romantic and all those other things, but right now he just needed Harry, needed the taste of him and the feel of him against Zayn.

Harry slid up onto the desk, knocking something off the desk that probably wasn’t important, and his legs were spread wide enough that Zayn could fit between them, so he could kiss him and run his hand over Harry’s crotch, where he could feel him getting hard.

Harry moaned into Zayn’s mouth when he pressed his hand down, even through two layers, and Zayn just grinned and kissed him harder. Maybe he hadn’t outgrown everything, because he liked the idea of Harry like this for him, desperate and clinging to his shoulders, only looking at him. But this wasn’t the yard outside of Kappa, and this wasn’t for anyone else, this was for them, because Zayn was in love with him and he’d get Harry to be in love with him.

He managed to divert his attention enough from Harry’s lips to his belt, to get it undone and then to shove it and his boxers down enough to get a hand around Harry. Harry’s whine was one of the best sounds Zayn had ever heard from him, and he ran his hand over the head of Harry’s cock again, just to see if it was the same.

“Fuck, Zayn, please,” Harry babbled. His hands were in Zayn’s hair now, pulling him in for another kiss as Zayn stroked him again. “Please, god you’re so—want you, please—”

“Yeah.” Zayn gave Harry’s cock another stroke, then let go, “Yeah, I—” he glanced around. Lube. He needed—there had to be—

“My gym bag.”

“What?”

“There’s lube and condoms in my gym bag,” Harry told him, breathless. “If—I mean—” His face tensed, the need fading in favor of something else, and his grip loosened. “If you want, I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, I—”

“Stop it.” Zayn disentangled himself from Harry, and somehow managed not to knock over any desks on his way back towards the door. He scrabbled in the bag for a second, but it wasn’t too hard to find a box of condoms that he grabbed one from. It was a pretty big box.

“Have enough condoms?” he remarked, as he dug for lube. It wasn’t—he pushed down the parts of him that wondered why Harry needed this here. He wouldn’t be that person, not again.

“Well, I have to be ready.” It was like each time he looked back at Harry it was even better, because now Harry was sitting on his desk with his cock out, his hands clenched at the edge of the desk as he watched Zayn with hot eyes. “You’re clearly not prepared.”

Zayn snorted out a laugh, and finally found the bottle.

“You really don’t have to,” Harry said again, though, as Zayn stalked back towards him. “If it’s not—”

“I’m not fragile,” Zayn repeated. He pulled Harry back to standing, kissed him again just to taste him, then turned him around, pushing his hips against the desk. “Want me to show you?”

He could hear the cheek in Harry’s grin, even as he pulled down Harry’s trousers to his knees. “Yes please.”

And once again, this was even better, Harry against his desk as Zayn slicked up his fingers. He hadn’t known he’d wanted this, would probably never be able to look at his desk again, but fuck he needed this right now.

He didn’t have time to be gentle, and Harry must not have wanted him to be, fucking back on Zayn’s fingers whenever he slowed and urging him on with muttered words and moans, until, “I’m good, Zayn, just—fuck—”

Thank god, at last. Zayn was graceless pushing down his pants, rolling on the condom, but he didn’t care, he just wanted Harry, wanted him everywhere and all the time and especially right here and right now because he wanted to write odes to Harry, wanted to find his own poetry in the curve of his back, in the way the muscles moved in his shoulders, in the sound he made as Zayn slid in. Zayn’s fingers tightened on Harry’s hips as he waited, but Harry felt so good and tight and his nails were probably digging into his skin with the effort of not moving, until Harry started to circle his hips then, “Yeah, Zayn, come on, heard something about showing me?”

“Shush, you,” Zayn scolded, biting at his neck again, and started to move. They moved together without words, without needing anything but the push of their bodies against each other, and Harry was still making all the noises and squirming like he did when he was close and desperate and he felt good. Zayn wanted him to feel good, wanted him to feel as good as Zayn did, filled with his love for Harry, with all the happiness Harry gave him.

“C’mon,” he urged, reaching around Harry to wrap his hand around his cock again, jerking him off to the same rhythm he was fucking into him. Harry groaned at the contact, almost falling forward like the arms bracing him up were going to give out. Zayn pulled him close with his other arm, so his chest was pressed to Harry’s back, so they were so close air couldn’t get through, and he ducked his head to bite at the bruise he had left. Harry jerked at that, then, he was coming with a choked off moan.

Zayn coaxed him through it, then caught him as he sagged, keeping him pressed against him so he could press his lips softly to Harry’s jaw, his cheek. His own cock was throbbing in Harry, and his hips were quivering with the urge to move, but he couldn’t, needed Harry to be here, be with him.

“Hey, babe,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear. “Okay?”

That got a chocked off snort. “Feeling pretty all right, yeah. You?”

Zayn pressed his laugh into Harry’s neck. “Been better.”

“I bet.” Harry glanced over his shoulder, dimple flashing. “Still don’t think you’re going to break?” He shifted back, pressing deeper into Zayn.

“I—”

“You can.” Harry was smiling, but his eyes were serious. “I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t supposed to be that, it was supposed to be Zayn having Harry, helping him, but he couldn’t not move anymore, had to thrust into him again and again, nonsense about how good Harry was, how much he wanted him, needed him, spilling from his lips until he was coming too, burying his yell in the warmth of Harry’s skin.

He didn’t move as the endorphins settled in him, until Harry was shifting against him, not sexily anymore, and he pulled out.

Harry leaned back against the desk again, grinning as he watched Zayn take off the condom, throw it into the trash, and wipe his hands off on a rag he found in Harry’s gym bag. “Facilities’ll have some interesting questions for you tomorrow.”

Zayn made a face. That wouldn’t be fun. “As long as you didn’t get come on any papers.”

Harry raised up his hands, his face at his most innocent. “I wasn’t the one who decided fucking on your desk was a good idea.” His face relaxed into another smile, and he held out his hands to pull Zayn back towards him. “It was a good idea though.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” Zayn threw his arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulled him against him, so he could rest their temples together. So they could just be together, wrapped in their silence. He could stay here forever, just the two of them.

But Harry couldn’t stay just the two of them forever, and that was okay, that was good. Zayn didn’t need all of him anymore. He could love him and still accept that he broke the silence with a, “We should probably go meet the guys,” that he got his part of Harry and that when he gave away other parts of him he wasn’t giving away Zayn’s. And if he wasn’t in love with Zayn, he would be soon.

“Yeah,” Zayn agreed. But he didn’t let go of Harry, and Harry didn’t move. “Just one more minute.”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, rubbing their cheeks together. “One more minute.”


	9. Chapter 8

_Hey_

Harry glanced at his phone, then checked who the text was from a second time, just to be sure. It wasn’t like Zayn to send chatty texts. To send texts at all, but especially open-ended texts on Saturday afternoons. But it was from Zayn, and it was too early for a booty call, and maybe—maybe Zayn just wanted to talk to him. So,

 _Hi!_ Harry texted back, _What’s up?_ He slid the phone back into his pocket—the chances Zayn would remember to text back were pretty slim, he figured, and picked his broom back up. He’d always liked Saturday morning chores, as long as he wasn’t hung over. How he could get everything neat and tidy and in its place and then have the rest of the day to do what he wanted, how everything was shiny and clean before his mess came out again.

He had only managed to sweep one more corner before his phone buzzed again. _There’s an exhibition on opera singers at the Met_ , Zayn had replied, _Want to come with me?_

Harry took a look at the room. It was basically clean, all his laundry put away and everything dusted and the dishes washed. He just had to finish sweeping and then he’d be done, and it was only noon so Zayn probably wasn’t moving much anyway and he’d have time. And it did sound interesting, and he’d—and Zayn had asked. Had asked him.

 _Sure!_ He replied, _meet you on the steps at 2?_

 _Sounds good_ came back almost immediately, and Harry grinned at his phone before he tossed it on the table to finish his chores. If he whistled while he worked, well, he was a musician, he was supposed to always be whistling, and anyway, he’d watched Disney enough to know it was only appropriate.

Maybe it was the whistling, but he finished more quickly than usual, and took the trash out, the last of his list, by quarter past. He’d been doing chores, and he’d worked up something of a sweat, so he hopped back into the shower. And he was going to a museum, somewhere nice, which is why instead of his normal weekend day attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt he pulled skinny jeans on and selected a lightly patterned brown shirt from the row of hangers. He let his hair stay loose, because—well, because. Because he looked good like that and he liked looking good. Not that—not that he was looking good for Zayn, because it wasn’t a date or anything, even if Harry was pretty sure they’d end up having sex sometime during the day. And for all he knew he wouldn’t have time to go back home before his gig tonight and so he had to be prepared for that.

Even with some primping, he still got to the Upper East Side by two. He scanned the white marble steps for Zayn, but he was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found, so Harry shot him a quick, _here, sitting by the northern lion_ text and settled against it, blowing once on his fingers before he started scrolling through Twitter to wait. March was still coming in like a lion, but it wasn’t bad enough to force Harry inside, where it’d be loads harder for Zayn to find him, and then there would be crowds and Harry wasn’t sure how Zayn’d deal with them.

He was paging idly through an article on ‘Seventeen of the Worst Jokes on the Internet’ when someone cleared their throat, and Harry looked up to see Zayn smiling at him. “Hey!” he grinned back, putting his phone away.

“Hey, babe.” Zayn leaned in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “You make a lovely picture there.”

“Yeah?” Harry tried to will down the blush, or the pleased smile tugging at his lips. “Gonna paint me like this?”

“Couldn’t do you justice,” Zayn retorted. Harry bit down his smile again. He knew Zayn thought he was attractive—hell, he knew he was attractive, full stop—so it shouldn’t have set that warmth afire in his stomach to hear him say it. Especially when it was Zayn who couldn’t have justice done to him, his hair ruffled by the wind into his face, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling. “Want to go in?”

“No, I’d quite like to just freeze out here.” Zayn stuck his tongue out, then grabbed Harry’s wrist to lead him inside.

He didn’t let go of Harry as they made their way through the crowd to the admissions booth, as they got the stickers that weren’t nearly as good as the old aluminum tags. Harry did his best to study him, to make sure he wasn’t having a problem—but Zayn seemed fine, if a little irritated at tourists standing in packs right at the entrance to the main staircase.

“Okay,” Zayn said, when they’d finally gotten out of the way by ducking into a side of the statuary hall, “Want to see the singers first? Or anything else?”

“Singers,” Harry decided. The special exhibits halls were often less crowded, too. “Are you okay?”

Zayn’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“There’s just…” Harry waved the hand Zayn wasn’t holding at the museum. “A lot of people. Crowds.”

That got Harry an irritated sigh, like the tourists had gotten. “I’m not agoraphobic,” Zayn informed Harry patiently, a bit of a bite to his voice. “I’ve gone to the museum before. I do go out in public. It’s just new situations I’m not expecting that are hard, usually.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m fine,” Zayn repeated. He let go of Harry’s hand, but Harry only had a second to wonder if he was really annoyed before he had moved it to cup Harry’s chin, brushing a lock of hair Harry hadn’t even noticed out of his face. “I’m not going to break. I thought I had proved that to you.” A hint of mischief flashed in his face, his voice lowering to something rich and hot. “Unless you need to be reminded?”

Harry really wouldn’t mind being reminded, if it ended with him being fucked over Zayn’s desk again, because that ranked up there on hottest places he had had sex, along with that time with the twins in Cabo and onstage of a closed bar back in college, that one time had and Zayn had gotten to a gig really early. But there were kids around, and while he’d never say no to Zayn there was something else here too, in the brush of Zayn’s fingers against his cheek and the easiness of his smile, something Harry didn’t want to lost.

“Later,” Harry decided, with his cheekiest wink. “Come on, let’s see the singers.”

And it was nice, wandering around the galleries with Zayn. Harry knew about as much about art as Zayn did about music—which was to say, more than he probably liked to admit but enough to BS his way through—but it was nice to hear Zayn talk about the paintings, to hear his excitement and the way his hands waved as he got into it. To see Zayn’s smile when Harry said something. How when they had left the opera singers and had wandered upstairs to the Impressionists, Zayn stopped in front of a Monet and just leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, his arm wrapping around Harry’s waist, so Harry really didn’t have a choice but to put his arm on Zayn’s shoulders and pull him closer. It was all lovely and wonderful and weirdly, almost déjà vu familiar, and it didn’t hit Harry as to why until it was almost six and Harry checked his phone for the third time in ten minutes, to see what time it was. They’d done this before.

It had been their five month anniversary, and Harry’d convinced Zayn to do a day in New York as celebration. They’d wandered around the Met like this, giggling into each other’s mouths and holding hands and feeling so grown up to be on their own in the big city. Or at least they had for the first few hours, until Harry’d gotten bored wandering around, and had gone to ask a friendly docent about the best restaurants for dinner, so he could find somewhere Zayn would like, that hopefully wouldn’t card them because Zayn would like that too. (Was that enabling, he wondered now—had he been enabling?) Zayn had been quiet when he had found him again, quieter than usual, and had barely talked as they left, until Harry had grabbed his hand and kissed him outside on the steps, right where everyone could see, because they were there together and Zayn had been holding onto him tight. And then he could still remember that night, in the hotel room they’d pooled their resources to pay for, the first time they didn’t have to worry about dorm walls or anything, remembered how he’d had Zayn almost in tears begging for him, how the next day he’d had scratches down his back and bruises all on his neck.

It felt like that. It—it was like that, to the day, Harry realized. Seven years and five months since that night in room 513, and here they were again, his arms still wrapped around Zayn’s waist like nothing had changed.

Zayn must have felt something, because he glanced over his shoulder at Harry. “You okay?”

He didn’t remember. He couldn’t have remembered. Zayn didn’t remember things like this, like anniversaries or what they did on them. Even when Harry always avoided him on their anniversary each year since he’d been back, Zayn’d never seemed to react. It was just coincidence, probably. Had to be.

“Fine,” he smiled back. This wasn’t a date, not like before, and that was good. Because thinking back he remembered the way Zayn had looked when he had left him, unsure until Harry’d basically assured him it was him he wanted. Remembered how desperate he’d been, when he kissed Zayn outside, to get Zayn to look at him again, to stop paying attention to everything else and just see him.

“Bored?” Harry started to demur, because even if yeah, he was pretty done with the museum, he didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to ruin it, but Zayn kept talking. “We can go. Basically dinnertime, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, and let go of Zayn so they could go back outside. He didn’t grab his hand, either, because that would have been—that would have been too much déjà vu, and Harry wouldn’t be able to resist kissing him again.

Except then Zayn grabbed his hand, intertwined their fingers without even looking, like it wasn’t a big deal. He couldn’t remember, not if he was doing that. But it wasn’t like Harry was going to let go, either, not when Zayn was looking at him.

Zayn tugged them to a stop next to one of the columns, outside of the main aisle so tourists weren’t running them over. “So—”

“Thanks for thinking of this,” Harry interrupted, before he could say anything that would remind Harry any more of what it was like to be able to kiss him here, to push him against a pillar and be shameless about how much he wanted him, how much he loved him. To remember how they weren’t going home to the same hotel room this time. “It was fun. Lots of fun. I—”

“Haz.” Zayn grinned, and then he was stepping into Harry’s space, tilting Harry’s face towards him with a hand on his neck and he was kissing Harry, soft and sweet and coaxing, like he knew Harry needed him and his calm to keep him grounded. Needed someone to hold onto, before he spun out.

It was Harry who pulled away, though, because Zayn seemed like he’d be perfectly content just standing in broad daylight—well, twilight—kissing him forever, with interested tourists watching with varying degrees of judgment. Not that Harry wouldn’t—not that Harry didn’t want to sometimes, didn’t want to lose himself in Zayn’s mouth and hands and never come back out—it was just that he knew he would, and he couldn’t let himself.

Zayn let him go, his hand still resting on his neck, like he didn’t want to let Harry get too far away. “Dinner?”

“What?” Harry’s lips were still throbbing, he was still too full of then and now and them and all the things he shouldn’t have to process.

Zayn just laughed. “Do you want to grab something to eat?”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah,” Harry confirmed. He glanced at his phone—nearly half past six. “I’ve got a gig later, though. In Williamsburg. So I need to get to that.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s hand slid down his shoulder, back to his hand, but the glance he gave Harry was sidelong, from under his eyelashes, with his tongue tucked between his teeth. “Would you—like, can I come?”

It took a second for Harry to process. “You want to come?” he asked, in case he had misheard. In case his ears actually had frozen off, or Zayn had finally managed to kiss him deaf. “To a gig?”

“Yeah. Do you mind?”

Harry snorted. Like he’d mind. Like he’d ever mind having Zayn there focused on him, chosing to be with him. “Of course not, but you don’t have to. If you don’t feel like it, or if it’s too much, it’s not a big deal I don’t—”

Zayn squeezed Harry’s hand, and he fells silent. “I want to,” Zayn confirmed certainly. “I love watching your gigs.”

Harry managed a smirky grin. “Yeah? Like watching me on stage?”

“I always like watching you,” Zayn retorted, smirking back. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, which was really an unfair habit of his, because what was Harry supposed to do against that? Just like what was he supposed to do against Zayn leaning forward, so their bodies were pressed together and Zayn was whispering in his ear, “So why don’t we go get dinner, then go back to yours and I can get you in a mood to perform.”

“Zayn, you know I always perform well,” Harry retorted, winking, to cover his breathlessness and Zayn laughed and kissed Harry’s cheek before he stepped away.

\---

“Are you sure you’re okay?” It was maybe the fifth time Harry had asked it since they had left his apartment, but Harry didn’t really care. He didn’t want Zayn doing this because he thought he had to. He didn’t want Zayn doing anything he didn’t want, but especially not—not this. Because apparently he’d done this when he didn’t want to too many times for Harry’s sake, and if Harry had his way that’d never happen again.

“I’m fine,” Zayn replied, pretty patiently. His voice rasped out, and Harry couldn’t help his satisfied grin at that, either, at how he’d put that there. “I can make my own choices, Harry. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want.”

“I can see if James brought his girlfriend,” Harry suggested. He did that sometimes, then Zayn wouldn’t feel isolated, would have backup, “I could—”

“I’d rather be here alone than with a stranger,” Zayn pointed out, which yeah, Harry could have guessed that. But still, Harry hesitated by the barstool Zayn had sat himself at, tucked in the corner at the very edge of the bar. He liked sitting in corners. Harry’d always known that, but he’d never really thought about it, how it limited access to him and made it easier to control the approach. He should have noticed. “Really, babe.” He tugged Harry in for a short, smacking kiss. “Go on. Let’s see how well you perform.”

Harry laughed. “Didn’t have any complaints earlier.”

“No,” Zayn agreed, and there was his fucking tongue again, like a cat who got into the cream. “I didn’t.” He leaned back against the wall, the very picture of satisfaction, and how was Harry supposed to walk away from that, from Zayn in his jeans and the sweater he had borrowed from Harry because his shirt had been unavoidably dirtied in the course of the evening, looking like an invitation of everything Harry wanted?

“Zayn—”

“Go on,” Zayn repeated. He hooked his feet on the bottom rung of the stool, so his knees fell open. “Told you, I like to watch.”

“Maybe watching is all you’ll be doing later,” Harry retorted, but somehow he got up the strength to leave him there, to make his way backstage to where the rest of the band was fussing with their instruments.

“Your boyfriend settled?” Jules asked when he slipped behind the ratty curtain, glancing up from twirling her drumsticks between her fingers.

“Not my boyfriend,” Harry retorted. He glanced at the mirror, shaking out his hair. He’d redone it before they left, had been forced to, but it still had been a little messed up by his hat and when he’d been forced to kiss Zayn outside the bar for luck.

“So it was someone else I saw him kissing?”

Harry knew it was teasing, but he gave his reflection a dark look. “I doubt it.” Though maybe it would be better if it was. “I didn’t give him much time.”

“Maybe he moves fast.”

Ryan snorted. “Certainly doesn’t seem like it.”

“He moves at just the right speed,” Harry inserted, before it could devolve. Then he thought about it, and grinned, dirtilty as he knew how, “Trust me.”

“Unnecessary sharing,” James threw in, and Ryan scowled, but Jules just laughed back.

“Yeah? Not too fast, not too slow?”

“No, just right,” Harry informed her.

“Do we need to use fairy tales as a metaphor?” Ryan inserted. “You’re ruining my childhood.”

“Fine.” Harry sighed, like he was the most put upon, and winked at Jules. “We ready?”

The show went by, as all the best shows did, in a haze of music and cheers and lights and Zayn grinning at him from the corner, swiveling on his stool sipping at a drink. Harry’d forgotten what it was like, to have someone to sing to in the crowd, to sing to him and mean it, even if he didn’t know it and didn’t feel it back, to croon out words of a love song out to the bar and dart a glance over to see if Zayn was looking. He was, he always was, and it was brilliant, feeling that look on him.

Or it was brilliant until Harry glanced over as he grabbed some water as Ryan talked between songs, and at that exact moment Zayn swept up the last of some sauce on a plate of food he must have ordered with a finger, and slid it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing and his gaze still locked on Harry.

Harry choked, nearly spit out his water. The finger slid out of Zayn’s mouth, and his tongue swirled around the tip like he needed the last drop—Harry turned away, before he got seriously hard on stage.

“Problem, Styles?” Jules laughed, when he walked back like he was talking to her and not getting distracted because Zayn was unfairly hot and knew just how to push all of Harry’s buttons.

“No.”

“So your boyfriend practicing his blow job techniques isn’t doing anything for you?”

“Not my boyfriend.” Harry took a deep breath, tried to think of the least sexy things possible. “I’m okay.”

“If you two must eyefuck while on stage, make sure everyone enjoys it,” she shot back, as Harry turned around again. Zayn must have finished everything on his plate because he was just sipping at his beer again, but his legs were spread like an invitation and he had that horrible, wonderful, come hither smirk on and when Harry glared in his direction, Zayn just blew him a kiss, the smirk melting into his big, crinkly eyed smile, and how was that even worse?

Somehow, though, Harry survived the set, even if Zayn didn’t fucking stop, just kept on with that smirk and shifting his hips like he was uncomfortable (good, because Harry was) and playing the ends of his hair like Harry liked to and licking at his fingers, and by the time Harry finished their last song and headed backstage with the rest of the band, he was just about ready to kill him. Or drag him into the bathrooms and make him follow through. One or the other.

“Good show,” James said, putting his guitar down.

“Yeah,” Jules agreed. “Kind of slow on the chorus of Better than Love, though.”

“I was not!” James retorted. “I—”

“Are you heading right out?” Ryan asked, as Jules and James started their traditional post-show bicker. “Or sticking around?”

Harry wanted to do whatever got him to Zayn fastest, but if Ryan hadn’t noticed, he’d like to keep it that way. “I dunno. I’ll check with Zayn, see what he feels like.”

“Right.” Ryan nodded. “Well, if he wants to go and you feel like staying, I’ll be around for a while.”

“Sounds good.” If Zayn wanted to go, Harry was going with him, but Ryan deserved tact. “I’m going to go find him now, if you’re okay?”

“Yeah, they should be done soon.” Ryan jerked his head at Jules and James. “See you, Harry.”

“Yeah!” Harry nodded, then slipped out from backstage.

It wasn’t that easy. People started talking to him, then there were the ones who asked about their demo, and because James wasn’t out yet to hand it around Harry had to explain, and so it took at least ten minutes for Harry to get to Zayn’s corner.

He was still there, but there was a guy next to him, talking at Zayn. Harry paused. The guy was older, burly in a way Zayn didn’t go for, and Harry caught a glimpse of a wedding ring, but he looked like the intellectual type Zayn liked to talk to, who could talk about literature with him, and he didn’t want to break up their conversation if Zayn had actually made a friend.

So instead, he sidled over, trying to be unobtrusive as he draped himself over Zayn’s back, his chin on Zayn’s shoulder. The guy gave him a confused look, but Zayn only relaxed and kept talking about—unicorns, from the sound of it. Harry couldn’t really follow the conversation, didn’t try to. Instead he just breathed in Zayn’s scent, tried to ignore the need Zayn had set pounding through him.

Finally—probably only a minute later, but it felt like ages—Zayn was bidding the man farewell and he took two glasses and was wandering back into the crowd. Harry stood up enough that Zayn could swivel around in his chair, though he stayed close enough that when Zayn did he was caught between Zayn’s legs. “Sorry, didn’t know how to get rid of him,” Zayn said, running a hand back through his hair. “You were great.”

Harry shook his head. “No fault of yours.”

Zayn’s innocent smile was not, Harry thought, as good as his. “What do you mean?”

“Fuck, Zayn.”

“Told you.” He rose, so they were close again, and then Zayn’s arms were wrapped around Harry’s neck, almost casually. “I like to watch you.”

“Really?” Harry drawled. His voice hitched, as Zayn pressed against him, but he continued, “You mean that isn’t how you usually act in bars?”

Zayn laughed, low and rough in his throat. “You’re brilliant up there, you know that?” he asked. “So brilliant.”

The tremor that went through Harry this time wasn’t in his voice, or even his body, but his heart thumped with the words. “I’m a good performer,” he admitted. He was, he’d always known that.

“It’s more than that.” Zayn pressed a kiss to the underside of the jaw. “People can’t look away from you. Even now, everyone’s looking.”

Harry wouldn’t know. He couldn’t look away from Zayn. “Think that’s because we look like we’re about to fuck right here,” he countered. It was a bad idea, because then he was thinking about it, about pinning Zayn against the wall and biting all the lovely words from his throat, of trying to hold onto this moment of Zayn looking at him like he’s everything before it disappeared forever.

“No, it’s because you’re you. So fucking brilliant, always. You shine so bright.”

Harry swallowed again, but there was something in the looseness of Zayn, the way he pressed against Harry without worrying, the way he was smiling like he did when they were all alone—“Are you drunk?” he asked. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to—hadn’t wanted to force Zayn into this position, this was just like before except it was worse because now he knew.

“Only a little, and only because I want to be.” Zayn bit at his jaw again, the sting centering him again. “I was fine without it.”

Harry shook his head, reached up to disentangle Zayn’s fingers from his hair. “Zayn, if you—”

“I wasn’t drunk before.” Zayn purred, in Harry’s ear now. “When you were watching me from the stage. I wasn’t drunk then. I was just enjoying myself.”

“Oh?” And there was the heat again, the blood running lower, because Harry knew how to deal with that, not the things he was saying about Harry, sweet as the poetry he’d given him earlier.

“Used to hate how you were onstage, how it made everyone want some of you, but I think I like it now. Just watching you shine.” Zayn bit at Harry’s earlobe, and his hips jerked. Zayn giggled into his cheek. “But I thought maybe I’d take some of you back, this time.” Zayn’s voice went even lower, his hips grinding into Harry’s. “Seems like it worked.”

“You’re horrible,” Harry shot back. His hands had found their way to Zayn’s hips now, keeping him close. There were probably other people around, but he couldn’t see them, didn’t know anything existed outside of Zayn’s mischievous smirk and the searing heat of their bodies.

“Gonna do something about it?”

“You did mention about taking some of me back,” Harry agreed. Even he knew it was one of his worse lines, but Zayn still chuckled.

“Yeah?” His hips rolled again, and Harry could feel how he was getting hard too, beneath his jeans. “Plan’s working, then.”

“Maybe.” Harry would have laughed, if he could breathe. If he could think. “I might need my revenge first.”

“Sounds exciting,” Zayn licked his lips. They really had to get out of public before they broke right here. “Going to make me work for it, are you?”

“Going to make you beg,” Harry promised, and yanked Zayn close so he could deal with the bill before they left, which had better be soon or Harry wasn’t promising anything on the subway.

Zayn was laughing into his throat. “Looking forward to it,” he murmured. They really couldn’t get out of here fast enough.

\---

_Carlos: Okay, I’ve got an idea._

_Dorothy: Oh, so you’re speaking to me again?_

_Carlos: Well, unless you have some sort of reading app in my voice…_

_Dorothy: Oh, be quiet, Carlos. You know what I mean. You’ve stopped giving me the silent treatment?_

_Carlos: Apparently._

_Dorothy: …that’s it? No explanation for why you were mad?_

_Carlos: Come off it, D.A. We both know why I got pissed, but I have an idea and Mr. S’s pretty cool, so can you please listen?_

_Dorothy: I don’t know why you’re mad, but fine. If it’ll help Mr. Styles, then of course you can talk to me again._

_Carlos: Why are you being so bitchy?_

_Dorothy: I don’t know, maybe because you decided to be bitchy first? What’s this plan? If it involves water balloons, I’m turning my phone off._

_Carlos: Look, I know you think I’m a joke, but I think this has a chance of working, so shut up._

_Dorothy: …I don’t think you’re a joke. You just make too many jokes._

_Carlos: Right, obviously. So. The plan._

_Dorothy: Why would I think you were a joke? Why would you think I think you’re a joke?_

_Carlos: Maybe because we’ve been friends for eight years and you’ve always thought of me that way? It’s okay, D.A. I’ve accepted it. You don’t wear pigtails anymore, I’ll stop. Anyway. My plan._

_Dorothy: …Carlos, what does my hair have to do with anything?_

_Carlos: Do you want to hear my plan or not? I thought you wanted this to work._

_Dorothy: Yes. I want to hear it. But I really don’t._

_Carlos: And you’re being bitchy again. Anyway…_

\---

“No!” The snap got Zayn’s attention from across the wing. “No, stop, don’t even bother!”

Zayn held up a hand to stop the girl discussing her ripped costume with him to trace the source of the yelling. Most of the kids had stopped working when the yelling started, but they were all still around the sets, or milling around practicing their lines, for the ones that weren’t as off-book as they were supposed to be by now. But they easily pointed their way to the disturbance, and Zayn took one look and was on his feet.

Dorothy was standing in front of one of the freshman stage hands, her hands on her hips, her face red, as the boy cowered slightly in front of her with papers scattered around his feet. “Now you’ve messed up my whole organizational system, and I have to—”

“Hey.” Zayn interrupted, before she could explode anymore. “Is something wrong, Dorothy?”

“I—” There were tears in her eyes when she looked up at him, and her shoulders were tense like they had been all week, like she was a second away from exploding, “I need to redo this, I need to put it right, because he—”

“Why don’t you go help Jeremy with the lights,” Zayn suggested to the freshman, quietly. He nodded, scampered off with a single frightened backwards glance. Zayn waited until he was gone, then, “Is it a catastrophe?”

“No, it’s not, it’s just annoying because I have to do it again now,” Dorothy snapped. Then, her eyes widened, probably when she realized she was talking to a teacher. “Sorry! I mean, no, it isn’t. I’ll fix it.”

She dropped to her knees, gathering up the papers the boy had dropped. It meant her head was ducked, but Zayn had too many sisters and had been a teacher long enough to catch those tricks, knew when someone was hiding their face.

“Hey.” He crouched down next to her, so when she looked up she couldn’t help but look at him. Her eyes were definitely rimmed with red. “Let’s take a break, okay?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Let’s take a break.” Zayn drew her up with one hand. He glanced over her head so he could catch Harry’s eye from across the stage; Harry grinned as soon as he saw Zayn looking. When Zayn widened his eyes and looked down at Dorothy, though, Harry’s face sobered and he nodded, leaving the scene to Louis as he came over to supervise backstage. Zayn smiled his thanks, then led Dorothy to the side of the stage, where it was isolated enough that no one would be able to see her.

“I’m fine,” she started, as soon as he paused. “Really, I’m sorry I lost my temper, I’m just a bit stressed—”

“This is the third time you’ve started yelling this week,” Zayn pointed out, softly. He didn’t want to make it accusatory. Just to make her face her emotions. “Are you sure it’s just stress?”

“Yes! I haven’t been getting enough sleep probably, but don’t worry, I can handle this, I just need to rearrange my schedule—”

“Does it have anything to do with Carlos not being backstage at all this week?”

Her mouth nearly dropped open before she caught it, her blue eyes big. “What? You noticed—I mean, why would it?”

Zayn swallowed back a laugh. Even if, honestly, he hadn’t really noticed, not until Louis had remarked on it yesterday. But he had learned how to deal with stressed out emotionality, so he shrugged. “Are you sure? Because I would have thought that would have relaxed you, if he’s not there to be distracting.”

“I thought so too!” Her hands flew up, almost throwing the clipboard into the wall. “I thought it would be nice, him staying away, even if—well, him not being here, but it’s not. I’m getting even less done. It doesn’t make sense.”

It was a little harder to hide his smile this time, but Zayn managed it. She deserved to have her emotions respected. Why did he always manage to get these problems? Harry would have been the one to go to, who knew how to deal with this. Zayn couldn’t even manage to convince Harry he should be his boyfriend, no matter how romantic he was, no matter how much he tried to be the person Harry should have.

“Did you ask him to come back, then?” he asked, evenly, “Can’t have my stage manager too stressed to work.”

“No, he’s mad at me. I think.” She tugged at the end of her ponytail, then crossed her arms over her chest, drawing her protectively inwards. “At least, he’s not really talking to me.” She glanced up, suddenly looking younger. Or maybe just looking her age, instead of the organized intensity she usually projected. “He thinks I don’t take him seriously. But I do. I just don’t know how to convince him of that.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Oh course.” She rolled her eyes. “But he didn’t listen. I think he thought I was joking, which, let’s be real, is pretty ludicrous.” She shook her head. “So now I don’t know how to make him take me seriously. Ironic, right?”

“Definitely a good example,” Zayn agreed, and waited. If she needed to talk more, she would.

“I guess I need to figure it out, though,” she went on, sure enough. “If it’s negatively affecting my life. Figure out how to…” her cheeks went red suddenly, and she cut herself off. “I mean!” she hurried on. “Maybe I should ask Mr. Styles.”

“Why him?”

“Well, you’re single, right?” Dorothy explained quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “And I’ve heard Mr. Styles talk about his boyfriend. So he’s probably got more experience, right now.”

“Boyfriend?” Zayn echoed. He hadn’t—they hadn’t used that word. Harry had never used that word, had refused to, so if he was…Had it worked? Had he noticed? Was he admitting he was wrong?

“Yeah! I just—I mean, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just heard him on the phone Tuesday, said something about how he went out with his boyfriend on Saturday? And then yesterday he said something about how they were happy?”

Oh. Zayn couldn’t—he bit down on the smile twitching at his lips, at the urge to go find Harry and kiss him right now, because he was responsible and a good educator and that would probably get him fired. “Oh,” he managed to get out. She was peering at him, like she wanted to see his reaction. The kids were invested in their relationship, after all, but if Harry—he should talk to Harry first, probably. “Well.” He swallowed. “Talking to Mr. Styles would probably work. But you do need to address this. Letting it sit won’t help.”

“Yeah.” Dorothy’s lips pressed together. “I will. Can we go back, now? I do need to organize those papers, and we only have like a few minutes left.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Zayn stepped aside to let her go. She did seem happier, lighter; he hoped he had helped. She had certainly helped him. Boyfriend. Harry had called him his boyfriend. Harry was ready to give them a chance, to give him a chance.

He looked back over the wings, over all the kids putting their stuff away, to where Harry was standing with Louis, half watching them and half whispering to each other. He couldn’t help but smile. At them, at life. At Harry.

He waited until the students had cleared out, until Louis had gone to his office to finish off some things, before he made his way over to where Harry was fussing with some sheet music.

“Hey, babe,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist so he could lean his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry glanced down at him, his brow furrowing in surprise for a second before it evened out. “Hey,” he said, slowly. “Was everything okay with Dorothy?”

“Yeah. Carlos not being here’s been stressing her out. I didn’t realize how much he calmed her down.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry chuckled. Zayn considered taking offense, but as he hadn’t, and also because Harry’s arm had come around Zayn’s waist, he decided not to. “But yeah. He evens her out. It’s sweet, if they could get their shit together.”

“Sounds like they’re on their way.” Zayn pressed a kiss to Harry’s neck, because it was there, because apparently he could.

Harry giggled, turned his head away so Zayn couldn’t reach his jaw. “Zayn, stop! The doors aren’t locked.”

“No one’s here.” If Zayn couldn’t get to his jaw, he trailed his lips to Harry’s collarbone, “And I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend after hours.”

Harry’s whole body went rigid. “Zayn,” he said again, and his voice was hard and fast. “Zayn, we’ve talked about this. We aren’t.”

“But—” Zayn pulled away enough he could look Harry properly in the eyes. “But, you’ve been talking about your boyfriend. I figured—” He hadn’t even thought, hadn’t even considered if it had been someone else, but maybe—they’d never said anything about monogamy, but Zayn’d assumed, after a while—“Is there someone—”

“No,” Harry snapped again, “No, there’s no one else, I swear. But we aren’t boyfriends. I haven’t said anything, I wouldn’t. Who told you that?”

“Dorothy.” Zayn shook his head, to clear it, and stepped back. He needed distance, needed to not be pressed up next to Harry as his heart fell. But Harry had said it first. He’d said it, and Zayn had thought—he’d thought Harry had seen, that Harry had seen how much he’d been trying, that he’d been better this time—and now he hadn’t—now Zayn had said that, he’d called Harry his boyfriend but he didn’t want it and fuck, of course, how could he have been so stupid what was he supposed to say—

“Well there you go,” Harry caught at his arms, like he saw Zayn starting to go downhill. Breath in, breath out. It would be okay. Harry wouldn’t be an asshole about it. Even if Zayn had been wrong, had read everything wrong. “It’s probably another matchmaking scheme.” Harry smiled. Zayn scowled at it. He didn’t want to see Harry smiling now, not when—not when fuck, he’d been so happy for a second, so ready, and now. Now Harry wasn’t. He hadn’t admitted anything, he hadn’t seen that Zayn was better. “Hey, Zayn. You okay?”

“No.” No, he wasn’t. Harry’s gaze was narrowing, like it did when he was trying to make sure Zayn wasn’t starving himself. And he did that, and he took care of Zayn, and they did everything they had when they were going out and more, and Zayn had been trying so hard to be right for Harry, and none of it mattered, apparently. “Why won’t you call me your boyfriend?”

“What?” The smile was gone, and Harry stepped away so they weren’t touching anymore. “Because we aren’t, Zayn. Casual, right? We said.”

“We aren’t casual.” His voice was filling the empty auditorium, and for once, he didn’t care. He wanted this. Wanted Harry, more than he’d wanted a lot of things in his life, and he’d been trying. He hadn’t run away when he didn’t get what he wanted, he hadn’t hid, he’d put himself out there, and it still wasn’t working. “You know that, Haz. If I know that, so do you.”

“No,” Harry repeated it like if he said it it was true, his eyes widening like he got when he started to panic. “No, we’re casual. We have to be.”

“Why? Because you’ll cheat on me again? Because you won’t, Harry. We’re not twenty anymore, and I trust you.”

“I don’t trust me!” Harry took a step back, perilously near the edge of the stage. Zayn reached out to pull him back in; Harry flinched away from the touch. It was—he hadn’t done that before. Not ever. Not since that last walk they’d taken, when he’d been quiet and fidgety and had looked at Zayn in a way Zayn hadn’t known how to interpret, then, and he hadn’t let Zayn hold his hand. He was doing it again now, and that was exactly what Zayn hadn’t wanted, for him to step away. But this time Zayn wasn’t leaving. “I’ll just hurt you again, Zayn.”

“No you won’t.”

“I will! It’s what I do, apparently.” He spread his hands like that was an explanation. “I hurt you even when I don’t mean to, and I can’t do that to you again.”

“What, is this about the social anxiety stuff?” Zayn had known it had disturbed Harry, but not that much. “Because that wasn’t on you. I needed to learn how to handle it, and I did. It’s not your fault.”

“It is! I’d always drag you out, and even now you went out for me again! And I—I might cheat on you, you don’t know that I won’t.” Harry took another step away from Zayn, like he was running away. “I’m just trying to make the better choice for both of us. So I won’t hurt you.”

“Well, you’re hurting me now.” Zayn tried not to wince away from Harry’s pained breath, to take a step forward again. They’d always been better at communicating when they were touching. “Not being with you for real is hurting me.”

“Zayn—”

“No. It is. I’m in with love you, and not being able to be with the person I love is hurting me.” Shit. That hadn’t been how Zayn had meant to say it, had meant to pretty it up for Harry, but it was out now, and the silence was thick in the auditorium, the echo of the words filling the room. What if Harry—what if he was scared? What if that wasn’t what Zayn was supposed to say, what if he needed the romance, what if he was going to leave now and he hadn’t practiced he didn’t know what he was supposed—

Breath in, breath out, and Zayn looked up at Harry.

Harry was just staring at him, his jaw basically dropped. His eyes were so big the green in them glistened, bright as emeralds, as all sorts of other non-cliché things. It wasn’t running away, at least.

“What?” he squeaked, at last. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re not,” Harry said, like it was a fact. “You don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“No. You don’t.” Harry shook his head, his hair waving. “No.”

Well, that was clear. But it was there, at last, and nothing Zayn could say could make it worse. He glanced away, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to, like, reciprocate. But I am in love with you, and I think—like, maybe you could be too, eventually? I’ve been trying, I can be what you need this time, if we tried? You were sort of in love with me once, right, so maybe if you saw what I—”

Harry snorted, humorless enough that it cut Zayn off. “What?”

“You really are bad at this, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, but there was something that was first cousin to a laugh in it, and when Zayn finally got the bravery to look at Harry he was smiling, even if it was nothing like his usual grin, even if it hurt instead. “Fuck, Zayn. You really don’t know?”

“What?”

Harry did that snort again, the one that was painfully cynical in a way Harry wasn’t meant to be. “Zayn, I’m not sure I ever stopped being in love with you.”

“What?” Zayn said again. He hadn’t—no, he’d have known, he couldn’t be that unobservant. Well, he could be, because if Harry said that, he probably was. But surely he’d have known. “You—then if I love you and you love me, then why—”

“Because of that!” Harry’s voice rolled out, suddenly forceful. “Because I do love you, I love you so fucking much, and I’m not letting us fall into the same traps again.”

“We aren’t!” Zayn set his jaw, crossed his arms. “We’re not twenty anymore, it’s different now.”

“It isn’t,” Harry insisted. “Or, it is, but not enough. You still…”

“I still what?” Zayn demanded. What didn’t he do? He’d been trying, he’d been trying to be the person Harry deserved, he thought he had managed it. Sure he didn’t manage the club, but he’d gone to gigs and bars and paid attention to him and didn’t ignore him and he’d done everything right! “What don’t I do, Harry? I’ve been trying, I’ve tried everything, so what—”

“You still don’t love me as much as I love you!”

There were more words that echoed, that filled the space and sucked the air out of Zayn’s lungs.

Zayn could only gape. “What?” he spat. “Hell, Harry. What?”

“I—it’s always been true, we both know it.” Harry shrugged, and Zayn might think it was careless if he knew him less well, if he didn’t know Harry’s body as well as his own. “I’ve always been mad for you, and you just—aren’t as much for me.”

“The fuck?” Zayn hissed. He hadn’t been mad for Harry? He’d—he went to a club for Harry, he’d been consumed with jealousy for Harry, he’d wanted no one else to curl up with on quiet nights and to watch Harry burn on stage. If anything, the opposite had been true—Harry had everyone, could get anyone he wanted, and Zayn was just Zayn, and the mere fact that he’d gotten Harry once was a miracle. “How could you think that?”

“It’s fine!” Harry went on, like Zayn hadn’t spoken. “Normally it’s fine, I’m fine with it, but if we’re in an actual relationship—that’s when I can’t, Zayn, that’s when it’s too much and sometimes I get drunk and forget—”

“That’s why?” Zayn cut him off. He’d known Harry blamed himself for something that was Zayn’s fault too, for how Zayn had hid too much and hadn’t been enough for Harry and so of course Harry had looked elsewhere, but he’d never even thought this. “You cheated because you thought I didn’t love you?”

“Well if you had you might have looked up once in a while!” It burst out of Harry, and Zayn reeled back like it was an actual blow. Harry’s face contorted like he had been punched, too, and his hand came out almost like he was reaching for Zayn, like he’d touch him—but then it dropped away. “Sorry. Fuck. See, this is why I can’t, I’m just hurting you more.”

“No.” No, they needed this, he needed to know. He had known that he was what really broke them, he just hadn’t known it was like this. But it was okay. He’d be better this time. He wasn’t going to leave. “No, I love you, I’m fine—”

“But you won’t be.” Harry retreated again, and again, “I’m sorry, Zayn, I can’t, I won’t, not again, I’ll be a better person this time, I—”

“Harry!” Zayn called, to stop him, but he had grabbed his coat and was out the door.

Shit. Zayn grabbed onto the table. Breath in, breath out. Shit. He hadn’t expected that. He’d known he’d fucked up, hadn’t been what Harry needed—but he hadn’t known it was because of that. How could Harry think he hadn’t loved him? He’d been mad about him, had wanted him all the time, still did want him all the time.

He’d tell Harry that. Had he told him that? He thought he had, thought that Harry knew with how he touched him and hugged him and cuddled with him, but apparently that hadn’t been enough, if Harry thought so little. He’d tell him. He’d find the words, the right words, somehow.

Zayn turned, grabbed for his coat—and was cut off by the screeching crash of something big toppling to the ground.

\---

_Dorothy: Oh my god Carlos you’re a genius!_

_Carlos: Wait, what? Why? Not that I’m not, but you haven’t called me a genius for years._

_Dorothy: Your jealousy plan is working! Mr. Malik and Mr. Styles are fighting!_

_Carlos: …D.A, have you slept recently? I don’t think fighting is a good sign._

_Dorothy: No, it’s great! They’re expressing their passions! I can’t hear all of it, because I’m sort of back stage and I don’t want them to notice I’m here, but I think I heard someone say love! Carlos, you’re amazing!_

_Carlos: I know. *bows*_

_Dorothy: No, really, though. I don’t—this was really clever. Not a joke._

_Carlos: …thanks._

_Dorothy: No problem. I’ve never thought you were a joke, I don’t know why you’d think that. Or, maybe I do. And I’m sorry._

_Carlos: Thanks. And in the vein of things that have never happened before: Do you maybe want to go see a movie together sometime? And get dinner?_

_Carlos: D.A? It’s not, like, no pressure or anything._

_Carlos: D.A?_

_Carlos: D.A? Is everything okay?_


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, the final chapter! Thanks for sticking around to see these crazy kids through, and make sure to look for the epilogue out on Saturday!

The door to his apartment slammed behind Harry before he could breathe again. Or maybe he had breathed on the ride home, he didn’t know. All he had done was stare at the tunnel outside the window and try not to hear ‘I love you’ and ‘you’re hurting me.’ Tried not to think about what he’d said. He’d never meant to—Zayn had never needed to know—he could have been okay, fuck. He could have been. With just as much as Zayn could give him.

He slid down to the floor, his back against the door. Now he’d messed this up, because Zayn knew—and Zayn had been angry, and he didn’t get angry, not really, but he had been—but Harry was right, he knew it, Zayn hadn’t looked up, he hadn’t, not even when Harry needed him, when Harry was desperate for just a piece of him—and if that happened he’d do it again, or he might, and Zayn couldn’t know otherwise. He was doing the right thing, he had to be, he had to. Wasn’t he? Even if Zayn had said—but what did Zayn know? Zayn hadn’t even known Harry was in love with him, and that was the most obvious thing in the world, that Harry needed him, that Harry couldn’t ever look away from him, so what did Zayn know about love?

Harry thumped his head back against the door. It hurt. It did, but it didn’t ground him, not at all. He’d—Zayn’d loved him. Zayn had loved him for real. He’d said it. He’d said it, and it was everything Harry ever wanted, for Zayn to actually say that—to say the words, to tell him. But—always the but, and Harry couldn’t—he didn’t know.

And where was Zayn? Harry knew this moment in the movie, when the hero’d run out and the other one needed to chase him down. He’d watched those movies with Zayn, so he knew Zayn knew them. And Zayn knew that Harry didn’t need space, he needed Zayn, needed Zayn to hold and to be calm for him, and Zayn knew that from loving him and being his friend and if he really loved him he’d be here. He’d have followed Harry. He’d have gone after him, he’d have chased him down, because this wasn’t years ago and he didn’t have a reason to let him go.

Harry grabbed his phone, but no one had texted him. Or, more to the point, Zayn hadn’t. Maybe he didn’t know he could. They’d never been in this situation before, maybe Zayn thought Harry was mad, not—not—whatever he was. Confused, in love, hurting, wanting, even though he knew he was right, he would just hurt Zayn again. But he needed Zayn. Needed him not to look like Harry felt when Zayn had walked away.

_Hey we should talk_

It wasn’t begging, it wasn’t—it wasn’t a prompt, or anything, but it was true, because Harry needed to explain, needed to tell him why—why they couldn’t. Why it was okay that Harry loved him more than Zayn did, that they could still be friends but Harry couldn’t risk it. That they could be happy just being what they were and that Zayn would find someone who wouldn’t hurt him and Harry—well, Harry would find someone he loved, maybe not like Zayn but he would, and why hadn’t Zayn texted him back yet?

Maybe he was on the train. Maybe he was on his way here and he hadn’t gotten Harry’s text yet. It was probably that, Harry decided, and got up. He would—they’d be fine. Zayn would come over and Harry’d make it up to him with his mouth and hands and do whatever Zayn needed. They’ll be fine, he repeated to himself, and got to his feet. He could—he’d put away his bag, for when Zayn came. Zayn was on the train and he’d be here soon and they’d be okay.

So he put his bag away, and put on water for tea, and looked at a phone that didn’t ring.

It still didn’t ring when he made himself some pasta, just to tide him over, or when he set some leftovers aside in a Tupperware. Maybe—maybe he was stuck in the train. Maybe his phone had died. Maybe—

The phone buzzed, and Harry only nearly tripped over three different things, only one of them air, to get to where it sat on the counter. Zayn’d texted, he was almost here, he’d let Harry talk out everything mixed up in him, he’d come after Harry—

_Hey_ , the text read—from Ryan. _Some friends and I are going out tonight, want in?_

Harry stared at his phone, at the ‘Ryan’ at the top of the message screen. Of course it wasn’t Zayn. Zayn wouldn’t—of course Zayn wouldn’t text, wouldn’t get back to him. Zayn had probably gotten caught up in something else already, been distracted from Harry, whatever he said about love. If he was really in love, he’d know Harry needed him, because Harry knew he’d drop everything for Zayn if Zayn asked. He’d know that he was supposed to be here, not reading a book or whatever he’d gotten sucked into instead. But he didn’t, he never had, and fuck him for that.

_Sure_ , Harry texted back, and threw his phone back onto the counter to get changed.

\---

The club Ryan told him to meet them at was way more upscale than the one he’d gotten Zayn and Harry and everyone into a few weeks ago, on the top of a building in midtown with an elevator right up to it. But it was in essence the same, and it was what Harry wanted, a press of bodies, of people giving him considering looks and smiling at him. Ryan’d found him at the door, pulled him in with a heated look that had felt so fucking good, with his silent phone still in his pocket, with Zayn still ignoring him.

It just all felt good, the way Ryan looked at him like he couldn’t look away, the way he could smile and then people bought him beers, the way the bass pounded in his veins like it was wrapping itself around him too. It was perfect, it was everything he wanted, and Ryan’s hands were on his waist pulling him in, and that was good too, the press of a body, the way he knew Ryan wanted him, wanted to touch him more than anything. It let him forget that silent phone, the same way it had years ago, when the press of bodies meant it didn’t matter, meant nothing mattered more than this.

“Hey,” Ryan murmured in his ear, “Didn’t think you’d come tonight.”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t want Ryan talking. He didn’t want to hear Ryan’s voice. He wanted to pretend that there was a different man behind him, that Zayn was here with his chest to Harry’s back and their hips together. Or maybe he didn’t, because fuck Zayn, fuck him for ignoring Harry just like Harry’d always known he would.

“You okay?” Well he certainly wasn’t Zayn, Zayn wouldn’t ask that, Zayn would never notice. Or he would notice, he did notice, he didn’t have to ask he just knew, when Harry was spinning out and he needed to be caught. But he wasn’t catching him now.

“Fine!” Harry yelled back, he was, he didn’t need anything.

“Zayn not keeping you at home?” Ryan pressed, his hand moving to Harry’s hip. It felt off, it didn’t feel right, and Harry was drunk but Zayn didn’t keep him at home, he’d never asked him to, he’d tried for Harry even when it hurt him. He’d been trying, he’d said, and that was almost worse because it made Harry ache, for how he was trying to be someone Harry didn’t need him to be. But he wasn’t here now. And that was Zayn, wasn’t it, the spurts of affection for Harry to bask in, when he’d been the most attentive boyfriend ever, fucking outside of Kappa and in libraries and holding Harry’s hand and never letting him go. Then he’d forget and it would be all the worse.

“I need another beer,” Harry said, instead of answering. Ryan just chuckled, because he didn’t laugh, not like Zayn did, wasn’t goofy and sweet and affectionate and all those other things Zayn was, and rolled his hips before letting go.

“I’ll buy you one,” he offered, smirking. It wasn’t as pretty as Zayn’s smirk, but it was here.

“Thanks!” Harry grinned back, his best cheeky grin, and let Ryan lead them to the bar.

It was packed there too, but a nice man let Harry have his seat, and Ryan leaned against the bar next to him, so their thighs pressed together. He really was hot, Harry mused, as Ryan leaned over to get the bartender’s attention. Dark and handsome as the best of them, all slick and polished. He was exactly what Harry liked, what he’d looked for in the last seven years, and he’d be up for it. He’d asked Harry here for this, to buy him drinks and for them to dance together, and he liked doing this, liked going out. It’d be easy, and Harry could. He’d do it eventually, this time or the next time Zayn forgot, and then he’d be here again so he might as well do it now.

“One Dogfishead,” Ryan announced, handing it to Harry. It was thick on his tongue, after years of not having beer, but it tasted right for tonight, the spice of it, the bitterness. It tasted like mistakes, like beer had for the last seven years. “Want to dance, or…”

One corner of his mouth tilted, a little hopefully, a little bit of a leer, and it was nothing to last week when Zayn was smirking at him but it was still nice. Nice that someone looked at him like that, when Zayn wasn’t here, hadn’t even texted, so—

Something was buzzing. Harry’s pocket was buzzing. He grabbed for it, the beer slopping over onto his shirt a little, but he didn’t care as he tugged the phone out of his pocket. If it was Zayn everything would be okay, it was late but Zayn would have gotten back to him and—

_Hey whatcha up to?_ Niall had texted. Harry glared. It was supposed to be Zayn. Zayn was supposed to have texted him back. Zayn was supposed to be here. He didn’t want anyone here, he wanted Zayn. Wanted to yell at Zayn for not following him then let him hug him and make it better, wanted to be home watching TV with Zayn in his bed with their feet tangled together and his fingers petting over Harry’s hair. Wanted to make sure he had eaten dinner tonight because if he hadn’t texted Harry back he probably had forgotten about eating.

Harry glanced over at Ryan, who was still looking at him like he was ready to fuck in the bathrooms, but he didn’t look at him like Zayn did sometimes, like he was the center of his universe. Maybe he wouldn’t forget about Harry either, maybe he would be able to go out to clubs and always text him back, but he hadn’t said he loved Harry, didn’t know when Harry needed him and didn’t giggle with little-boy glee and didn’t push his glasses up his nose absent-mindedly and didn’t mutter snarky comments under his breath when people were wrong.

“I’ve got to go.” Harry put the glass down, tried to smile apologetically at Ryan. It wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. Sometimes people didn’t work out, weren’t at the right place for each other, and sometimes they were.

“What? But—”

“I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Harry grabbed Ryan’s wrist, held it tight for a second so Ryan would look right at him. “Find a nice boy here, okay?”

Ryan pressed his lips together, but he nodded. “Yeah. Get home safe.”

“I will.” He would. He would because he wasn’t going home anyway, or he was, because he was going to find Zayn.

\---

Finding Zayn was easier said than done. He’d be home, Harry knew, but it was night and the N train was barely running and Harry had to wait for twenty minutes, and he was too drunk to stand up straight but the bench was all taken. Still, Harry managed to get to Zayn’s in one piece. Zayn still hadn’t texted him back, but maybe—he was good about getting the door, the buzzer would work.

The buzzer didn’t work. Harry tried again, then once more, before he remembered that it was past midnight and other people were probably asleep. He’d wait out here. He could wait, he would wait, he’d waited seven years and he could wait more.

Luckily, someone who must have been one of Zayn’s neighbors stumbled up to the door just as Harry was settling down on the steps. He gave Harry a weird look, but Harry just grinned and must have looked not sketchy enough that he didn’t say anything when Harry followed him in. Or maybe he recognized Harry. Harry hoped he recognized him.

Zayn didn’t answer his knocks either, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t hear them even if he was asleep because Harry knew you could hear the bell through the whole apartment and Zayn never wore headphones if it was just him there. Was Zayn asleep? It wasn’t that late, but it was possible. But Zayn would have texted him back before he went to bed, unless he was mad. Or even if he was. He wouldn’t think not to.

He had to be home, though. There was nowhere else he’d go. He’d have heard if he was going out with one of the other boys, he’d know, and Liam was on date night and Louis was out of town and Niall would have said if Zayn was there. There wasn’t anyone else Zayn would be with at one am. What if—what if something had happened?

Harry sunk down on the door, his back against it and his feet flat in front of him. What if he’d been being mad at Zayn and Zayn had been mugged? Or had gotten hurt? Or lost somehow? Harry’d always worried it was going to happen, and of course it would happen now, when Harry wasn’t looking.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, ready to call—to do something. It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t him pushing, it was just checking, it was making sure his friend was all right.

Even as he was typing out a message, the phone buzzed, and _Sorry, just got this. You still want to talk?_ appeared.

He’d just gotten this. Harry stared at the words like they’d change if he looked hard enough, but there it was. Zayn wasn’t blowing him off. Zayn hadn’t gotten it. Zayn hadn’t known Harry wanted to talk. Zayn still should have come after him, still should have known Harry needed him to, but he wasn’t ignoring him, and the thought of that felt like a life sentence rescinded.

_Where’ve you been?_ He asked back, instead. Zayn couldn’t have been on a train for the six hours since he left school.

_Hospital._

Harry’s heart stopped. Something was wrong. He’d gotten hurt and Harry hadn’t been there to help, hadn’t been there to help him with the hospital and what had happened, did it have something to do with his meds or—

He didn’t bother texting back, just hit the call button. Zayn answered on the first ring.

“Hospital!” Harry demanded as soon as the call connected. He didn’t have time for pleasantries for once. “Are you okay? I’ll come right now.” He was already scrambling to his feet, swaying a little but the shock had sobered him enough that he managed it. “Which hospital are you at? Do you need anything? Have you called your parents? What—”

“Harry.” Just the sound of his voice felt good, even filtered through phone lines. Calm, and easy, and exhausted sounding, and Zayn. “Haz, I’m fine.”

“Lead with that!” Harry sagged back against the door, pressing a hand to his heart. “You’ve got to lead with that next time, Zayn.”

“Sorry.” Zayn sighed. He really did sound tired. “I’m fine. It wasn’t me.”

“What happened?” Zayn was fine. Nothing had happened to him. Harry took his own deep breath, tracing the wood grain on the door.

“Just after you left, some scenery fell. Dorothy was still there, it hit her.”

“Is she okay?” It couldn’t be too bad, or else Zayn would sound more than tired. Probably.

“Broke her leg, but she’s okay other than that.”

“And you’ve been there all evening?”

Another sigh. “Yeah. I got her to Mount Sinai, and we had to wait at the emergency room, and then her parents are out of town this weekend, and her next of kin was her aunt but we couldn’t get a hold of her, and there was paperwork…” Zayn trailed off. “She was out for a while. I couldn’t let her wake up alone.”

“Of course not.” Even if Zayn had been alone. Had been dealing with all of this alone. But of course Zayn wouldn’t leave her to wake up alone, wouldn’t let her be alone and afraid, not Zayn, not even though hospitals couldn’t be a great place for him. “She’s doing okay?”

“Already making plans for how to delegate the more mobile of her duties.” Harry could hear the smile in Zayn’s voice. “Her aunt got here, that’s helping too.”

“Good. She’ll bounce back.”

“’Course she will.” Zayn paused, then, “Do you still want to talk? Where are you?”

Harry glanced around sheepishly. “Outside of your apartment? I can go home though, if you need to sleep, we can talk tomorrow—”

“No, I—can you be there? Please?”

“Of course.” Harry’d wait here forever, if it got that thin note out of Zayn’s voice. “Need me to come get you?”

“I’m almost home. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The call disconnected.

Zayn had been in the hospital. Zayn had been busy. It shouldn’t make Harry happy, it didn’t, he was sad for Dorothy, but—but Zayn hadn’t been able to get away. Zayn hadn’t been able to check his phone, let alone go after Harry. He’d been doing the right thing, the compassionate thing, and he’d texted Harry as soon as he could. He didn’t let Harry go, not willingly. And now he needed him here, with him. He’d asked him to stay.

“Hey.” Harry listed his head. Zayn was in front of him. His whole body seemed limp, his shoulders slumped, his hair loose and a messy, his face pale. He looked awful. He looked wonderful.

“Hey.” Harry opened his arms, pulled Zayn in, so Zayn could lean on him. So Zayn could rest his head on Harry’s shoulder and Harry could give his legs a break, so Harry could hold Zayn and feel all the confusion seep out of him, because here, this, this was what mattered.

Harry couldn’t say how long they stood there, wrapped together, holding each other up, holding each other together. But Harry knew Zayn, knew what he’d be like, which meant he probably hadn’t eaten since lunch.

So he brushed Zayn’s hair gently away from his face. “Let’s go in, okay?” he murmured into his ear. “Have some dinner.”

“Bit late for dinner.” But Zayn stood up, straightened. He already looked better, his back a bit straighter, as he unlocked the door to let them in.

“Midnight supper, whatever.” Harry grabbed Zayn’s wrist when he headed towards the kitchen. “Hey, go sit down, okay? I’ll make something.”

“I think there’s leftover Chinese, you can microwave that.” Zayn scrubbed his hands over his face. “Do you—”

“Sit down,” Harry repeated, and pushed Zayn towards the living room before he headed to the kitchen. There wasn’t Chinese food, but there was some chicken that Zayn must have made a few days ago, so Harry threw that on a plate—then, on second thought, added another plate.

When he got into the living room, Zayn was curled up on the couch, his eyes closed, even if he wasn’t asleep. “Zaynie. Food.”

Zayn’s eyes fluttered open, his eyelashes stark against his skin. His lips curved into a smile, like he was just waking up, like he was waking up and the first thing he’d seen was Harry and it was all he wanted. It sent pangs through Harry’s heart. That was the right way to look at him. That was how Ryan couldn’t.

“Thanks,” Zayn said, and reached up his hands for the plate. Harry handed it to him. But he couldn’t sit, not right next to Zayn, not while he still smelled a bit of beer and sweat and Zayn looked so tired and needy and it felt so much like college, so much like all the other midnight snacks they’d had after late nights studying or partying or just talking. So instead he settled on the arm of the couch, his plate resting on his thighs.

Zayn took a bite, then gave Harry a sidelong look. “So, you wanted to talk?”

“We don’t have to. Not now.”

“I’m okay.” Zayn shook his head, swallowed another bite of chicken. “Just—bit drained. But it’s okay. “ He blinked, pushed his hair out of his face again. “Is it about the whole boyfriend thing? I meant to come after you, but I couldn’t. And I’ve been trying, I won’t be that person anymore, I’ll be better—”

“I was really pissed tonight.” Harry cut him off. He put the plate aside, turned so he was oriented inwards, his elbows braced on his knees. “I left, and you didn’t come after me, and it felt—it felt like all those times in college. When I needed you to pay attention to me and you didn’t.”

“Harry, I—”

Harry shook his head. He needed to say this. He’d never said it before, and he needed to. Needed Zayn to understand, because he knew his Zayn, knew sometimes he had to lay it out in front of him. “You said how jealous you were in college, but Zayn—I’d have walked through fire for you. I was so fucking in love with you, I’d never have looked at anyone else.

“But I did,” Harry went on, before Zayn could point it out. “But that was—I needed you that night. And you didn’t want to go out, and that would have sucked but been okay, but then when I was getting ready and you didn’t even say good luck or look away from your book, like you didn’t even care—and I needed you to care, Zayn. I needed my boyfriend to care.”

Zayn had set his chicken aside too. His lips were pressed together, his brows drawn, and Harry’s never seen him this serious, probably. “I did. I was shit at saying it, but I did, Harry.”

“I know, I knew that then, but I—but it didn’t feel like it, okay? It felt like—like I needed someone to want me. To look at me like I looked at you. That was what it was. Someone wanting me back. And being drunk and all. But mainly, someone loving me as much as I loved you. Because you didn’t.”

“I—”

“But tonight, like, I was pissed again, you know?” Harry didn’t want to hear Zayn’s protests. It was okay. He’d figured that out. “And I went out. And I was so angry, because it was the same, you saying you loved me but not caring enough to fight, to come after me.”

Zayn didn’t bother protesting, just nodded, his eyes dark as they rested on Harry. Not judging, just there, and Harry could focus himself in that look to figure out what to say, in the stillness that was Zayn. “And I was pissed and drunk and I could have—but I didn’t. I came here.” He slid down onto the couch proper, so he could be closer to Zayn. “I _didn’t_ , Zayn.”

“Am I supposed to be surprised?” Zayn was still looking at him so seriously. “You’re the only one who thought you’d do it again.” Then he bit his lip, and looked away. “But, like, if you don’t—if you want to, I mean, because we aren’t, like, you don’t want to be boyfriends, so you could. If you wanted. I wouldn’t be mad.”

Harry winced back into the arm of the couch. That was—no. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. “Do you want me to?” Say no, Harry pleaded silently. Say you want me to never look at anyone else. Say you want me forever and always and will love me that long too.

“If you—” Zayn’s breath hissed out of him. “I don’t want to—“

Suddenly, he looked up, back at Harry, and his eyes were burning, fierce and hot like nights out in college when Zayn’d push him against a wall to bite marks into his neck, like the bar the other night when Harry’d sung for him.

“No,” Zayn snapped. “No, I really fucking don’t. But I—I’m not going to be a jealous asshole again, Harry.” His fists were clenched at his sides, like it was hard. “I’m doing the—if you love them, let them free, right? So I love you. But I’ve been trying Harry, trying to be the sort of boyfriend who can go out with you, and it’s—it’s hard. I can do it, and I’ll do it for you, but it’s hard. And if—and if that’s not enough, I understand.”

“No, Zayn, I don’t want you to—”

This time it was Zayn who cut him off, his gaze still burning into Harry. “But if you keep thinking you love me more than I love you, than that’s—that’s not fair.”

“Not fair?”

“I’m bad at this. Bad at saying this.” When Harry started to speak, to protest, it was Zayn’s turn to cut him off. “It fucked things up between us once—”

“That was me, not you.”

“It was both of us,” Zayn corrected. “But what do you need me to do to prove I love you, Harry? Do you want something huge and public?” His face twisted, but his jaw was set stubbornly. “I would. If that would prove I could be enough.”

“Enough?” Harry had to reach out, to put a hand on his knee. “Zayn, you’ve always been enough. Even when you don’t want to do what I do. I’m the one who wasn’t.”

“If you didn’t know how gone I was for you, then it was me.” Zayn put his hand over Harry’s, a steady weight, grounding him here. “If you don’t know how gone I am, then it’s still me. Because you’re—fuck, Haz. I am. I’m mad in love with you, and I swear I would have gone after you tonight if I could have. I’ll get a fucking skywriter if that’ll help.”

Harry snorted, wetter than he expected. He hadn’t realized he was tearing up. Hadn’t realized that there was part of him waiting for Zayn to say those words, for him to hold onto Harry like he needed him to stay upright.

“I’ll announce it in assembly,” Zayn went on, turning so he could brush away some of the wetness with his thumb, so gently Harry could barely feel it. “Would that work?”

“Why?” It came out plaintive, quiet in the tiny room. But there it was. The biggest problem. How could Zayn love him? “I cheated on you. I broke your heart. Why would you ever love me again?”

Zayn smiled, soft and sweet, and so beautiful it hurt, still as beautiful as that first day in that far away lecture hall. “Because you’ve never lied to me. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leaned in, and his kiss was soft too, like a question and an answer all at once. He barely moved away to speak, so their lips brushed. “Is that enough?”

Harry had closed his eyes somewhere along the way, to hear the words. To feel Zayn’s mouth, to listen to his voice, to think about that club and how this was so much better and how he was here. Here, with Zayn, how he had come back to him, how Zayn had come to him, how Zayn needed him.

He opened his eyes. Zayn was biting his lip, his eyes huge in his face, all those too-perfect features close and lovely and nervous. “Yeah,” Harry breathed, as Zayn’s face broke into a grin so bright it was almost blinding. But he wasn’t done. “ But I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t,” Harry repeated, a promise, an oath, a plea, and leaned forward into the kiss. “I won’t,” he said again, when they had to come up for air, when somehow Harry was on top of Zayn, pushing him back onto the couch so Harry was straddling his waist, so Harry could get a proper angle to press his lips everywhere on Zayn’s skin he could reach, to press the words into Zayn like the ink of his tattoos. “I won’t,” he said again, into Zayn’s mouth, and Zayn just pulled him down to kiss him properly.

It felt like he could kiss Zayn forever, whispering promises into Zayn’s mouth, that he hoped Zayn knew he’d do his best to keep. But Zayn’s hands were fumbling with Harry’s shirt, and he pushed Harry’s hands off him so he could tug it off. Harry grabbed back for him, but Zayn had moved away from Harry’s lips, starting to kiss down his jaw, his neck, biting and sucking so Harry knew there would be marks. The thought made something burn in him, that he deserved those marks, that they were rightfully his now, so he tipped back his head to give Zayn a better angle as Zayn tipped them over, somehow magically ending up on top of Harry this time, not stopping as he trailed his lips down Harry’s chest like he wanted to taste every inch of Harry’s skin.

Harry was perfectly okay with that plan, but looking down, he got his hands in Zayn’s hair enough to make him look up. “We don’t have to—you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired.” Zayn’s gaze was burning, like the world could explode right then and Harry was still all he’d see. Which wasn’t far from the truth, probably, and that thought made Harry shiver, as it always had, as it always would. “I want you.”

But Harry had seen his shoulders slumped, and if they were going to do this he’d do it right. He wouldn’t make Zayn do things he didn’t want, even if he didn’t know he was doing it. “You don’t—”

“You make me feel better,” Zayn interrupted. His fingers circled idly at Harry’s abs as he spoke, drawing patterns that chased goosebumps around his skin. “You always make everything better, Haz. Need me to show you?”

“No— _fuck_ ,” he breathed, as Zayn’s teeth closed over one of his nipples, his fingers pinching at the other, “Fuck, Zayn—”

Zayn grinned. “Maybe I want to show you,” he informed Harry, and gave his nipple a final lick before he was moving down Harry’s body again, to his jeans, which he opened with quick, deliberate movements. Harry’s mind was mush, just Zayn and please and the shadows Zayn’s eyelashes cast as he bent his head to pull off Harry’s jeans, tugging when the tight denim stuck.

Harry was hard already, couldn’t not be with Zayn on top of him, and he moaned again when Zayn wrapped his mouth around his cock. Zayn didn’t mess around, didn’t tease like Harry knew he could, just hollowed out his cheeks until Harry was swearing, his eyes fierce and intent on Harry.

Then suddenly he was gone, and he was kissing Harry again, and somewhere along the way he had lost his shirt which Harry was really, really okay with, because it meant Harry could touch, could trace all the parts of him he knew by heart, broad shoulders with muscles flexing under smooth skin, wiry arms and narrow waist and slacks that Harry tried his best to get open when Zayn was over him, kissing him hard and fierce with his tongue fucking into Harry’s mouth like he’d never needed anything more.

It took two of them, but then finally Zayn’s pants were around his ankles, and he kicked them off, his lips twisting into a frustrated grimace that had Harry laughing, sliding a hand through Zayn’s hair to cool him down.

“It’s not a race,” he chuckled, as Zayn finally got his pants off and was straddling Harry again.

Zayn’s lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh, just kept looking at Harry so hard that Harry was squirming just from that. “I’m proving it,” he said, simply, then his mouth was on Harry’s again.

Harry pulled him off. “You don’t have to prove anything.” That wasn’t—had never been the point.

“I do. I want you, Harry. I love you. I might not always say it, but I do.” He pressed another bruising kiss into Harry, and then reached over Harry’s head with the hand not holding him up to fumble at the desk drawer. “I loved you when we were twenty, but really I love you now and that’s what matters.”

He let out a satisfied breath, then brought his hand back to reveal the bottle of lube he’d found.

“Aren’t you prepared?” Harry laughed. He felt like he was glowing, probably, or maybe he’d just turned into light, with Zayn over him and his bright look and _I love you_ and _I won’t_.

“Still here from that time few weeks ago,” Zayn corrected. He was smiling now, which was right. They needed laughter, because there was always laughter too. “Aren’t you glad I never really clean up?”

“You’re cleaning the couch after this,” Harry told him, and that had really been too long without kissing Zayn so he tugged him down and kissed him again until neither of them could breathe. “Or I am,” he admitted, and Zayn was laughing again as he tugged lightly on Harry’s hair.

“I’ll do it if I remember.”

“You won’t remember.”

“Probably not,” Zayn agreed, and Harry would have kept arguing except Zayn’s hand closed loosely around his cock and all the breath left him as his hips jerked and his eyes closed, so he could just focus on the sensation, on Zayn’s hand around him and the idle way he kissed and nipped at his thighs and just Zayn, until Harry was ready to burst from it, all the confusion swirled away in the face of Zayn’s skin against his.

“Harry.” Harry struggled to make words, to hear words and not just the rough purr of Zayn’s voice. “Haz. Want to ride you. Can I?”

Harry was pretty sure the answer to that would never be no. “’Course.”

“Harry,” Zayn repeated. Harry opened his eyes, then almost wished he’d closed them again, because Zayn was hovering over him, too beautiful for words, and the laughter had gone in the face of something serious. “Can I?”

Harry glanced around to see if there was a reason Zayn was pressing this, that Zayn had stopped—and realized what was missing.

“Zayn—”

Zayn shook his head to stop his protest. He was still stroking Harry’s bare cock loosely, like there was a chance of Harry getting uninterested with him right there. “Can I?”

It was—Harry hadn’t done this. They’d never done this, not lately, not back in college. Which might have said more than it didn’t about them back then, that the one time Harry’d suggested fucking bare Zayn had just shook his head and distracted him with a blow job, that Harry hadn’t thought anything more of it. But now…Zayn wanted…

“Ryan was there,” Harry blurted out. He had to tell him. Zayn had to know. “Tonight. When I went out.” He didn’t let Zayn speak as he went on, “I almost—I could have hooked up with him. He has a crush on me. And I’m still in the band with him. I’ll see him a lot.”

Zayn didn’t look away from Harry, with that same focused, serious look in eyes shimmering gold in the dim light. “Can I?” he said a third time, in the same tone.

Because he trusted Harry. Because he knew Harry wouldn’t lie to him, wouldn’t risk him getting hurt. Because he loved Harry enough to trust him, loved him enough that Harry could remember that trust.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yes.”

Zayn’s smile flashed, quick and blinding, then he was sinking down onto Harry slowly and Harry’s mind whited out, at the intensity of it, at the feeling of Zayn without anything between them, all skin to skin, tight and hot and fucking everything.

“God,” Harry breathed out. He wasn’t—he needed—he reached out to grab Zayn’s hand, anchoring them together as Zayn’s face evened out again from how it had twisted slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Different.” Zayn’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his hand tightened over Harry’s, but he didn’t let go. “Just, like. Gonna go slow.”

“Yeah, whatever, you—” Zayn started to move, and Harry cut out on a groan, as their hips rocked together.

They knew how to do this, knew how to move together, with Harry’s hands on Zayn’s hips to balance him and Zayn leaning on Harry’s shoulders, keeping him down, and they knew the angles and Harry knew by Zayn’s face when he needed Harry to let go and wrap a hand around him, and that was wonderful too, as wonderful as the trust, as wonderful as the new feeling of heat and wet and tight around him. As wonderful as Zayn kissing him a second before Harry came, so his moans were caught by Zayn’s mouth; as wonderful as feeling Zayn shake as he finished himself, letting Harry catch him as he rode it out.

They lay in the quiet for Harry didn’t know how long, Zayn’s head on Harry’s chest, Harry fiddling idly with his hair. Harry didn’t feel the need to fill it. Didn’t feel the need to move, to do anything to break this moment, didn’t need anything but this moment.

“Shit,” Zayn said at last. “Didn’t think about how gross this’d be, after.”

Harry snorted out a laugh. “Yeah. Shower?”

“Probably a good idea.” Zayn groaned as he drew himself off of Harry, then made another face. Harry couldn’t help but grin again, propping himself up on his elbow to watch Zayn stand, head back towards the bathroom, because he liked watching Zayn wander around naked.

Zayn was most of the way to the hall when he glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

“What, again?”

“Not justifying that with a laugh,” Zayn threw back, so Harry was laughing as he got up too, to follow Zayn into a shower that really wasn’t big enough for both of them. Harry didn’t much mind, because it meant they had to stay pressed together as the water fell over them, soaking both their hair into their faces, so they were so close Harry could hardly tell where they connected.

“Hey.” Zayn gave Harry a quick, almost shy look, brushed his hair out of his face with that gentle touch he always had. “I do love you, you know? I’ll try to remember to say it more.”

“You’ll forget,” Harry told him. Because he would. Because he would forget and forget things and Harry would remember right now and Zayn’s trust and the way he smiled and it would be okay. “It’s okay, I’ll remind you.” He rested his hands over Zayn’s shoulders, interlacing them behind his neck like they were dancing. “That’s my job, right? As your boyfriend?”

Zayn grinned, his smile as big and brilliant as it was all those years ago, the first time Harry had seen it. “Yeah?”

“Seems right.” Harry tightened his grip, like he would never have to let go. He never wanted to let go, wanted to keep Zayn right here with him. “I love you, and you love me.”

“We’ll get it right this time.” Zayn hummed as Harry rested his head on his shoulder, as the water washed them clean.

“We will,” Harry agreed, mouthing it into Zayn’s skin. “Promise.”


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the final installment. Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

“We had Chinese last time,” Harry argued idly, as he tugged Zayn out of the way of a runner trying to pass them. “Niall always wants Chinese.”

“Liam always wants Chinese,” Zayn countered. “Niall asks for Chinese so we can get food faster.”

“Well, I don’t want Chinese. I’m going to break out from all the salt.” Harry’s nose wrinkled. Zayn grinned, his hand tightening over Harry’s. It was a good day. Central Park was sunny and actually not over-hot for once in the middle of August, but it was hot enough that enough people had fled inside to air conditioning so it wasn’t unpleasantly crowded, and Harry’s fingers were interlaced with his, swinging slightly as they walked.

“You’re not going to break out,” Zayn argued.

“Easy for you to say, mister perfect skin.” Harry stuck his tongue out. “I’ve known you eight years and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a pimple.”

Zayn shrugged. “I’ve got good genes.”

“Really? Never noticed.”  Zayn chuckled, knocked Harry’s shoulder lightly. They had passed the Great Lawn quickly, were wandering downtown idly enough that Zayn thought he might be able to convince Harry to go to the zoo. Maybe see how he reacted to the animals there, see how he might feel about a dog. “Would you still love me if I was all pimply?”

“Hmmm…” Zayn stopped to consider.

“Zaaaayn,” Harry whined, and caught his other hip so they stopped, so Harry could tug him in by the belt loops. “I knew it. You only like me for—”

“Mr. Styles!” Harry paused. “Mr. Malik!” the call came again, from somewhere behind Zayn. Zayn waited for Harry to let go of him, then turned to face the teenagers who had been spread out on the hillside, basking in the sun.

“Hey!” Harry waved, then added, in more of a whisper, “Come on, we should say hi.”

“Isn’t it weird? We’re teachers.”

“They graduated, we’re good.” Harry’s hand closed on Zayn’s again, and they headed over to where heads were popping up.

“How’re you all?” Harry asked, as soon as he could without yelling. “Enjoying your summer?”

“Always,” Keisha agreed. Her head was still tipped back, her eyes still closed, like she needed to expose as much skin to the sun as possible. She was certainly doing her best. “I haven’t had a thought for a month.”

“Keisha!” Arnold muttered. “They’re teachers, you can’t tell them that.”

“We graduated. They aren’t teachers anymore.”

“We are officially non-teachers,” Harry agreed. As if to punctuate it, he slung an arm around Zayn’s shoulder to pull him closer. Zayn went easily, let his hand rest on Harry’s hip. “If you don’t want to think until college, be our guest. Or in college. That’s a strategy.”

“Certainly was yours,” Zayn added, and the kids giggled as Harry made a face.

“I don’t need to hear this,” Harry announced, and turned away. “Hey, Arnold! How’s that workshop going?”

Zayn let him lead the discussion, leaning into him as he watched them banter, as Arnold discussed the acting workshop Louis had found for him after the hit that was the musicale, as Keisha inserted something that was half snark and half support, the others listening with interest as Dorothy and Carlos bickered with their hands clutched tight together. Phoebe was holding herself a bit apart, though, looking down at the book in her lap.

“What are you reading?” Zayn asked.

“What?” Phoebe glanced up, then down again, quickly, “ _Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao_ ,” she mumbled. Zayn watched, waited for her to go on—but there was nothing. She hadn’t been like this since she was a freshman, and even then she’d warmed to him quickly, in the way a lot of shy bookish kids did, recognizing their own. She kept on looking at him, though, and she was a bit flushed, probably from being pale and out in the sun too long. He hoped everything was okay, that he hadn’t said something at graduation—maybe to her parents? Maybe—

“So, Dorothy!” Harry interrupted Zayn’s thoughts, by speaking loudly enough Zayn was distracted. “You dealing with your leg okay?

“It’s fine.” Dorothy sighed heavily. “Annoying, but I should get the cast off before going to school.”

“She’s enjoying bossing us around,” Carlos added.

“Bossing you around,” Wanda corrected. Carlos shrugged, grinning.

“You need bossing,” Dorothy informed him matter-of-factly. “You hadn’t even talked to your roommates before I made you.”

“And we would have been fine.”

“Who would have bought the fridge if you weren’t prepared?”

“We’d have made an icebox, probably.” Carlos winked at them over Dorothy’s head as she sputtered. “I’m sure ice is free, we—”

“That is so unhygienic, oh my god, Carlos.” Then her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t have really, would you? I don’t want to worry about you dying of food poisoning.”

“Yes you do. You need something to worry about.”

“I will have plenty to worry about without you being on the list too.”

“Admit it, you’re enjoying making me do things.”

“I never contradicted that, I just—”

“Sickening, isn’t it?” Keisha asked, as their arguing continued. “Almost enough to wish they hadn’t gotten together.”

“Then we’d have had to deal with the sexual tension, though,” Arnold pointed out. “That was worse. D.A. was yelling a lot.”

“More than usual?” Zayn asked. Keisha laughed, and Arnold gave a non-committal sort of shrug. Phoebe made some sort of high-pitched giggling noise that didn’t sound healthy, but did distract Carlos and Dorothy enough to remind them there were others present. “So,” Zayn asked. It might have been intrusive, but he was curious about their relationship. He liked to think he’d helped, some, “You guys are thinking about next year, then?”

“Yep!” Dorothy said, before Carlos could answer. “I think we’ve figured it out. Long distance will be hard, but with proper management—”

“There are schedules,” Carlos inserted, mock-whispering. Dorothy patted him on the thigh but ignored him.

“With proper management, we should be fine.”

“Good luck managing Carlos,” Keisha added.

“Are—” Harry’s hand tightened over his shoulder, and when Zayn looked at him, he gave a miniscule shake of his head.

“What?” Zayn muttered, under the cover of an upswing in what sounded like an old argument about Carlos’s organization. “They’re young. Chances are they won’t work.”

“Yeah, but let them have this,” Harry murmured back.

“They probably won’t end up together.”

Harry grinned, and pressed a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek. “We did.”

That was absolutely an illogical argument, and Zayn couldn’t find it in him to argue it, not with Harry’s dimpling grin so close, not with the sunshine and the warmth and the summer languor, not with Harry here talking about forever. “We did,” Zayn agreed, and turned his face so he could kiss Harry properly—except Harry pulled back.

“Audience,” he whispered.

Oh. Right. And not only audience, but audience that was looking at them and smirking, all of them except for Phoebe, who was still staring at her book. Which was odd, because she’d definitely been a big proponent of their scheme, Zayn had guessed.

“We should leave you to your fun,” Harry went on, to the kids. “Good to see you, though! Stop in next year when you’re back in town.”

“Definitely,” Zayn added. “Or if you need anything.”

A chorus of ‘yeah’s and ‘bye!’s, then they were turning to go. Except—

Zayn stopped, turned around. They had all started to huddle up, but they looked up as soon as he spoke, probably the teacher thing. “Actually, been meaning to say,” Zayn ran his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand. “Thanks.”

“For what? We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary this year.”

Zayn gave Carlos an unimpressed look to cover his smile. “If you say so.”

Harry waited until they were out of sight before he started giggling.

“Carlos has an awful poker face,” Zayn observed.

“Really don’t think he was trying,” Harry told him, still laughing. “Still. Good kids.”

“Yeah.” Zayn nodded. He’d have let silence fall, but Harry went on,

“I think I might want some.”

“You can’t steal teenagers, Harry. It’s even harder than stealing babies. And just as illegal.”

“No. Like. A kid.” Harry gave him a sidelong look. “Someday. You know.”

“Yeah.” Something warm started in Zayn’s belly, something that wasn’t arousal at all, just warmth and happy. “Me too.”

“Really?” Harry’s dimples were starting to peak through, even if he was clearly trying to hide them. “You’d be an awful single dad. Your kid would probably starve.”

That wasn’t exactly fair, but it wasn’t exactly a lie, either, and anyway, Zayn was pretty sure it wasn’t the point. “Probably shouldn’t be single, then, should I?” he asked.

“Nope. Definitely not. You need someone.” Harry’s hand tightened, and his grin was bright as the sun. “We both do.”

“Convenient,” Zayn drawled, and Harry’s laugh rolled out into the warm air as they walked on.

The warmth was still in Zayn’s stomach, in his blood and his limbs and everywhere that had heard Harry, and he didn’t want to ruin this golden day, but, “Did Phoebe seem a little off, to you? Like, quiet?” Harry snorted. “What?”

“She’s never seen you without sleeves, Zayn.”

“So?”

“So for an eighteen year old girl with a crush on you, it’s a lot.”

Zayn rolled his eyes. “They’re just tattoos.”

“Trust me, it’s a whole new experience, looking at you in a tank top.”

“Haz…”

“First time I saw you in short sleeves, it was like our third class,” Harry told him, just laughing when Zayn made a face. “You had on some, like, Green Lantern t-shirt, and I said something stupid about it, and you laughed, and I decided I needed to ask you out.”

“Took you that long? No love at first sight?” Zayn teased. He grabbed Harry’s other hand, sidled closer.

“You’re one to talk. It took you a month.”

“I’m slow, we both know that. You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“Yeah?” Harry did kiss him this time, soft and slow. “Am I?”

“B,” Zayn informed him, “Room for improvement.”

“Just a B?” Harry put on his most sultry expression, swaying from his hips. “Any way I can argue my grade, teacher?”

“That’s creepy,” Zayn laughed. “But you could kiss me again, see if you could improve it.”

“I’ll see if I can earn extra credit, later.” Harry promised, but he didn’t kiss him, just rested their foreheads together, so they could breathe in and out and it was just them, in their own bubble.

“First time I saw you sing,” Zayn said, suddenly. He must have said this before, but if he hadn’t, he should.

“What?”

“That was when I really saw you. First time I saw you on stage. You just—glowed. Everyone was looking at you, and I couldn’t not.” Zayn ducked his head. “Still can’t.”

He felt as much as saw Harry smile. “Well, I was only looking at you.” He turned, so they could stand together, Zayn’s head on Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s cheek against his hair, their hands clasped. “Always will.”

“Me too,” Zayn murmured, closing his eyes to focus on this moment, to center on it. “Always.”

_Phoebe: Oh my god, do you see them?_

_Dorothy: So cute!_

_Tim: Why are we texting? You’re right next to me._

_Dorothy: So we don’t disturb them, obviously. Someone got a picture?_

_Phoebe: It’s like something out of a movie. *sigh*_

_Keisha: I can hear you sighing, Pheeb. You don’t need to type it._

_Phoebe: I’m recording the moment. I might have forgotten in the face of Mr. Malik’s tattoos. Did anyone else know he had tattoos? I didn’t know he had tattoos._

_Keisha: You notice the earring?_

_Phoebe: WHAT! NO! If I faint, will you catch me?_

_Keisha: Nah. Even I’m melting a bit at that._

_Arnold: I’ve got you, Phoebe._

_Phoebe: Thanks, Arnold._

_Dorothy: Shut up. We did good here, guys. I’m proud of us. They’re going to live happily ever after._

_Carlos: Just because you say so doesn’t make it so, D.A._

_Dorothy: This time, I’ve decided it does._

_Carlos: That still doesn’t work._

_Phoebe: Shush you all. I want to see the happily ever after kiss._

_Keisha: …okay that was adorable._

_Phoebe: Told you._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Questions? Want to discuss? Comment or come chat on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/) Bonus points to people who can identify the kids!


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